


Ensnared

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, M/M, Mating Bond, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Outdoor Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Witcher Lore, Vines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24896797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Geralt is hired to hunt a creature that has been terrorising the local hunters and traders of Belhaven. He heads into Caed Myrkvid and finds more than he bargained for.Inspired by the beautiful piece of artwork by Sayuri527 [unofficial dedication].Foundhere.This is hertwitter.Follow the links in her bio for the NSFW version. Highly recommended.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 556
Kudos: 702
Collections: Anonymous, Subscriptions





	1. Captured: Geralt

“It’s a pest is what it is,” the hunter spits across the table, and Geralt moves his hand away to avoid the splatter of saliva. “All our traps, any wagon train that goes through. It destroys the lot. Some of the men get away, others don’t. Always seems to know when we’re comin’ too. It’s destroying the trade.”

“How long has this been going on?” Geralt asks quietly. His voice barely audible above the lute and tenor of the bard in the far corner. He sits perfectly still. Almost unnaturally so. His shoulders squared, his back straight. The others in the tavern regard him with trepidation, and the sickly scent of their fear is crowding his nostrils and making him feel sick.

“Best part of a year, witcher. Your kind don’t pass through here very much anymore.” 

“Not a lot of us left,” Geralt says as his gaze wanders towards the door. “Fifty crowns upon completion of the contract. You say the survivors report a male humanoid shape with green skin, pointed ears, interacts with wildlife and nature. It sounds like a dryad, but it can’t be.”

“Why not?” The hunter eyes the witcher with distrust. Didn’t even bother to disguise it. With his white hair and yellow eyes, his unkempt armour and his aloof demeanour, Geralt cut an untrustworthy figure. A monster hiding beneath a frail veneer of humanity. Incapable of empathy - of any emotion - a witcher is about as vile, and as feral, as the monsters they hunt.

“Dryads are exclusively female,” Geralt sighs heavily through his nose, one eyebrow raised. “Do we have a deal?” Belhaven is a shithole of a town. Their main export is iron ore to Mag Turga further south, but they still need access to the northern kingdoms for other wares. Their dryad - although it definitely _isn’t_ a dryad - problem is destroying the little infrastructure they have.

“We have a deal,” the alderman, who had been silent into that point, leans forward. His hand twitches on the table, as if debating whether to offer it to seal the arrangement, but Geralt spares him the embarrassment and stands. “How long do you expect it to take?”

“As long as it takes.” Geralt offers, helpfully, and then leaves the dingy interior of the inn, with its rancid smell of rotten food, human sweat and excrement.

_A pair of cornflower blue eyes watch him leave._

Geralt hates towns. Hates the filth and the noise that overwhelm his senses; hates the looks of distaste, and the murmurs of disgust he can _hear_ even though the humans in question drop their voices to a conspiratorial whisper. It grinds through him, a relentless ebb and flow of discomfort that often borders on pain, but he has to endure. That’s his job. His role. _His calling._ He is built to withstand the discomfort and so he does without question. As he leads Roach back out onto the road, his discomfort eases, but the ghost of it remains in the shape of a tightness in his chest and a coiled tension in his shoulders.

Before he left, he stopped to pick up some minor ingredients for the hunt ahead. Some dog tallow and some bear fat. The creature that they described was either an ogroid, or a relict, and it was far easier to purchase some of the ingredients from the local tanner than to hunt down the animals himself. 

In the few miles to the borders of Caed Myrkvid, Geralt finds a sense of focus. It isn’t complete. His body remains tense - _coiled -_ and so he meditates for a few hours in the shelter of the beeches and alders at the very edge of the woodland. The clarion call of the birds high in the canopies mixes with the memory of the melodic song of the lute and Geralt’s mind finds peace, the weight on his shoulders lessens, and he achieves enough to focus on the hunt ahead. 

He leaves Roach untethered at the edge of the trees knowing that she will come to him when beckoned and outrun any predator that dares harbour intentions towards her, and heads further into the forest in search of mistletoe and ginatia petals. After half an hour, he spots the pink petals of the ginatia bush at the edge of a clearing and stops to top up his water skin at the nearby brook. As he kneels down by the gurgling spring, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He freezes. Nostrils flare and pupils expand to make use of the little amount of sunlight flooding in from the dense canopy. It’s mid-spring, but already the woodland is thick and heavy. 

_Nothing._

He stands slowly, wrapping the twine of his herb bag around his belt, and lifts his head. The fingers of his right hand twitch but he doesn’t reach for his sword hilt. Not yet. If whatever watched him intended harm, it would have attacked by now. He tilts his head back and inhales deeply. No new scents. The sensation of being _watched_ remains for a moment longer, and then fades into nothing. Geralt studies the edges of the clearing, and then grunts. _Probably a wolf downwind._

Mistletoe next. It grows in only a handful of trees - poplar, hawthorn, conifer to name but a few - but as it's spring, the plant will still bear its white berries. Easy to spot against the backdrop of fresh, vibrant green. After another hour of searching, Geralt spots a hawthorn tree and its accompanying bind of mistletoe and picks his fill. The feeling of being _observed_ appears again a couple of times; an uncomfortable prickle across the back of his shoulders, but he doesn’t call out. Doesn’t make any indication that he _knows._ He returns to Roach, and he uses a small pile of dry twigs and a quick Igni to light a fire.

His initial reconnaissance had turned up nothing. Just that primal instinct that chafes at being _observed_ by an unseen gaze. Geralt decides to wait for nightfall. The world will be _quiet._ And _then_ he would begin the hunt for his prey. With Roach settled nearby, Geralt extracts his pestle, mortar and dwarven spirits and sets to work. He grinds the herbs up and mixes them with the dog tallow and bear fat respectively over the fire; he adds a dash of dwarven spirit, and then some white gull to thicken the mixture.

_A twig snaps._

Geralt’s silver sword is in his hand in the blink of a human eye, and he unfurls to his feet with the grace of a serpent. Amber eyes search the treeline, muscles coiled, but finds nothing. “Hm.” He rumbles, and then slowly returns the sword to its scabbard. Still no scent. Just the background simmer of fresh flower buds and fruiting trees. He remains alert as he finishes his two oils, tipping them into spare glass vials from his alchemy kit, he stashes them in a pouch at his belt and then returns to Roach to collect some potions. _Blizzard, Cat_ and _Tawny Owl_ should be enough. His hand hovers over _Rook_ and _Thunderbolt_ , but in the end he decides against them. _There is such a thing as overkill._

“Be good.” He tells Roach; she noses his chest as if to tell him to stop fussing, and then Geralt heads into the trees. The sun sets behind him and his enhanced vision becomes a boon. The hunters had provided him with directions to the problem area; his destination resides in the northernmost part of the forest, where the trees are at their thickest. As he walks, Geralt searches for signs of intelligent life; tracks, mutilated or half eaten animals, firepits, hovels and burrows. He finds none.

He continues, despite the feeling of futility that begins to creep up on him. And then the trees clear. It’s so sudden that it jars him momentarily out of focus. The beeches, alders and hawthorn had thinned. The shrubbery is mixed with tall, colourful fungi and his medallion hums against his chest. Before him lies a sea of colour, a meadow of wild flowers beneath the canopy of the trees. It should be an impossibility. Without focused sunlight, many of the plants he can see _shouldn’t_ be able to grow. Geralt reaches to his back and pulls his silver sword free. He breaks the vial of relict oil across the blade, holding it towards the ground to allow gravity to funnel it down the fuller. 

The vibration intensifies and he knocks back _Blizzard_ and _Tawny Owl._ It’s still light enough for him to see, so he leaves _Cat_ for now. The toxicity burns its way through his veins and he grits his teeth as he moves further into the ethereal meadow before him. There’s a cave in a rocky outcrop and he heads towards it. As he draws close, a sweet scent fills the air. He tilts his head and his nostrils flare. _His first mistake._ The smell intensifies and makes his head swim; his skin suddenly feels hot, his chest tight; his vision clouds briefly and he staggers. _Fuck._ If only he can just make it to the cave. He can hear water, he’ll be able to wash whatever this _is_ out of his system. He takes another few unsteady steps forward.

_He doesn’t make it._

As he steps beneath an archway formed by a thick collection of trees, a vine darts out from the shadows. He dodges it with a deft roll, his shoulder hitting the ground heavily, feet bracing in the dirt to bring him back round. His sword slices through another two vines that snatch at him, and he snarls into the darkness. There’s a pause. His heart is accelerating enough to provide his muscles with enough breath to function, but it’s still under his control. Three more vines lunge from the treetops. Geralt cuts two, but the third snags his ankle and pulls him to the floor.

The witcher lands heavily and the breath is knocked from his lungs. Throwing himself onto his back, he hacks at the vine around his ankle, but just as it splinters free another one coils around the blade of his sword and yanks. His grip isn’t _that_ weak. Geralt ducks and weaves around the tendrils that lash out for him; wood shatters and splinters, and then finally he gains enough space to cast. The fingers of his left hand curl and he lets out a ferocious, billowing funnel of Igni. The next two vines coiling towards him burn swiftly to ash, and a third falls to his blade, but a fourth ensnares his casting hand. Another rewraps his sword; denser, more robust, _now_ it wrenches it free from his grip. “ _Fuck.”_ He growls, trying to curl his fingers again, but the vine has pushed across his fist and is keeping them bound against his palm. 

With both arms restrained, more vines appear from the tree tops and wrap his torso. They weave beneath the links and flaps of his armour, and he feels his shirt begin to tear, ensnared in twigs and leaves. They lift him from the ground, removing his balance and his purchase; he thrashes and struggles, trying to free his casting hand first, but his movements are further hampered by another vine that coils around his waist and between his legs. 

It’s this _final_ vine that makes him realise; the heat on his skin, the tightness in his chest, has spread. It coils in his stomach now. A deep, primal tension that makes him want to test the strength of the vines if only to prove to himself he can’t break free. Not even with the influence of the witcher brews coursing through his veins. His head tilts down towards his chest, and he writhes in discomfort.

_A movement draws his attention on the right._

“Stop struggling, dear heart,” the voice says; it’s melodic, _beautiful._ And oh so familiar. “You won’t be able to break through these bonds.” The man walks slowly from the shade of the dense thicket and stands before the witcher. Head tilted to the side, he observes Geralt with piercing blue eyes. “How beautiful.” 

Geralt couldn’t _quite_ believe what he was seeing. Light green skin, pointed ears; his muscled chest scattered with fine, dark hair that dipped down beneath the pale blue loin cloth at his waist. _His scent._ Thick, sweet; intoxicating. “You’re a dryad.” Geralt wheezes, because whatever he’s breathed in is slurring his speech, making it difficult to breathe. 

“Well spotted,” the dryad says, with a little, knowing smile. “And you are a witcher. Now that we’ve got that out of the way - .”

“Dryads are female.” Geralt states. _Factually._ His knowledge of the bestiary, of the library of Kaer Morhen, is unrivalled. He struggles again, torso twisting, and then feels his trousers rip in the grasp of the vines wrapping his legs. _Oh fuck._ The pressure in his stomach has manifested into _something else._ Because there is _nothing_ in this world that can restrain him like this. _No one_ can snatch his strength away and render him helpless. _Concentrate._ His body is reacting _unhelpfully._ As the vines tighten, as his escape becomes less likely, as the stunning creature below gazes up at him with those enchanting blue eyes - cool, controlled - he feels his _prick_ begin to swell with interest. Not full. _But there._ He sucks in a sharp breath. The adrenalin provided by his potions _isn’t_ helping either.

“Yes. Most of the time,” the dryad says, his tone indicating that this is a conversation he is _bored_ with having. “Unfortunately for me, the Black Sun had other ideas. Now, my name is Jaskier. And you are - ?”

“Going to fucking kill you,” Geralt snarls, sweat beading on his forehead, his neck, his back as he pulls weakly at his bindings. The fight is evaporating from him. He can feel one of the vines pressing into his thigh and a traitorous part of his brain wishes it would go higher. “What have you done to me?”

“Well, Going To Fucking Kill You, I’m afraid your trespass triggered one of this glade’s defence mechanisms,” Jaskier lifts a hand and touches Geralt’s face. The witcher hovers just above him, not quite horizontal, but helpless now to fight back. “It’s not deadly. It will just zap that witcher strength of yours for a little while. Make you feel… well, high - ah ah. Don’t bite.” Geralt snaps at Jaskier’s fingers, lips pulled back in a wolven snarl. This doesn’t seem to scare the dryad. On the contrary, his pupils blow wide and his hand returns to his captive. He takes the medallion hanging from Geralt's neck and turns it over in his fingers. “A wolf.” He murmurs, blue eyes lifting, settling upon the two coal black orbs glaring at him. “A white wolf. Feral, and strong, and beautiful.” 

Slender fingers card back through Geralt’s hair and the light touch sends sparks down Geralt’s neck and across his shoulders. It isn’t magical, he knows. It’s the tenderness. The fact that he can’t _resist_ it, _push it away,_ despite its softness. Jaskier has him at his mercy, and yet chooses to pet him gently. This creature looks at him, enthralled. Even though his skin is pale and drawn with black veins, even though his eyes are coal black. Jaskier breathes the word _beautiful_ as if he means it. His cornflower blue eyes are sincere, _adoring._ “Geralt,” he grates out, “my name… is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, the word spilling forth from cherub bow lips as if they sampled a particularly sweet nectar. “Why are you here, Geralt? Witchers hunt monsters. I’m no monster.”

The vines are creeping high. They knead his thighs inquisitively, as if they’re an extension of Jaskier’s hands. The material of his trousers falls away and for the first time, Geralt feels the smoothness of the vines around his legs. They aren’t like the brittle, harsh ones biting into his arms, but soft, _supple_ , and as they slide over his skin he realises they are secreting _something._ Oily, slick. It only stokes the fire in his gut. “You’re attacking hunters, destroying their traps, kidnapping and killing men.”

Jaskier huffs, irritated. “The traps do not extend the animals the appropriate level of respect. How can one pay homage and thanks to the creature’s spirit if they die alone and frightened?” The dryad is indignant, and plants his hands upon his hips, apparently _oblivious_ to the heat building in Geralt’s skin. “As for the men, I kill only in self defence. Life is precious. Even _human_ life. Besides, I was only attempting to make contact for - .” He trails off, and heaves a sigh. Those luminescent eyes return to Geralt, and then so does one of the hands. This time, Geralt doesn’t bite at him, he can’t; the touch is like liquid fire on his skin. Every flutter of Jaskier’s fingertips sets him aflame anew. 

“For… what? Contact for - what?” Geralt grits out, his teeth clenched.

“A mate,” Jaskier murmurs; his palm drifts from Geralt’s neck to his chest, tugging away the parts of his armour that the vines have worked free, until only the tatters of his shirt remain. He places his hand over Geralt’s heart. It’s beating hard, and fast, for a witcher. “Even though I have been ostracised by my own kind, I still have my natural urges.”

Geralt breathes heavily through his nose. The edge of the vines have stopped just below the crease of his thigh; they’re squirming and oscillating though. A part of him is urging them higher still. He wants them to - _fuck._ His chin drops, and he watches Jaskier’s fingers stroke through the white hair on his chest, tracing the grooves of muscle, fluttering over his ribs. He’s not as emaciated as normal. It’s only spring. By the end of summer, there’ll be barely any definition left. “And if you mate, you’ll leave the village alone. You’ll leave the hunters.”

“Yes. I’m not particularly fond of humanity, although I do so love their music,” he whispers, his voice just as melodic, but soft now. Soothing his captive as he pets him. “The traps mustn't return, but they would be welcome to travel through and hunt in a traditional manner. I would have no dealings with their hunters or traders.”

“Fine, I’ll - I’ll find you a mate.” Geralt tugs his arms in, but they don’t move. He’s held fast. 

“Oh, but I’ve already caught myself one.” Jaskier grins, his teeth a perfect white. “And, by the look of things, he’s rather enjoying himself in my snare.” Blue eyes dropped to Geralt’s cock. It hung, thick and heavy, swollen with blood and fully erect thanks Jaskier’s touches and the restraint of the vines.

“ _Fuck._ ” Geralt drops his chin again. Because Jaskier’s right; he is enjoying himself. All he can feel is the writhing wetness of the vines around his legs, the uncompromising grip around his arms and chest, and _fuck_ , it’s turning him on. _Your life’s in danger, you fucking moron._ He can feel the heat rise up his neck - _no, witchers don’t feel embarrassment, they don’t -_ and spread across his face. Geralt realises he wants the hand fluttering across his abdomen to move those final few inches down. To wrap his swollen cock, to squeeze his - 

“Oh, my dear witcher. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve known many a man, in my short time, to get excited by restraint, by loss of power, particularly those used to being so in control all the time. Kings, emperors, generals… witchers.” Jaskier purrs, his hand lifting again to cup Geralt’s jaw. “I can offer you some relief, if you wish.”

“I’m… a witcher,” Geralt’s voice sounds pathetically quiet even to his own ears. “You - I’m - .”

“We’ve already covered the introductions,” Jaskier whispers conspiratorially, as if this is a show they are performing for an audience and Geralt has forgotten his lines. “So, my beautiful white wolf, what is your answer?”

The vines writhe and Geralt groans. It punches out of his chest before he can stop it. Because he _wants._ He wants Jaskier to take him while he can’t resist. He _wants_ the vines to hold him fast while this beautiful creature plunders him. And he _knows_ it’s base and animalistic. But - but - 

“Yes.” Geralt whispers, throat hoarse.

“I need to hear it a bit louder, Geralt,” Jaskier steps closer, his thumb stroking across the hard line of Geralt’s jaw. “I can make you feel amazing. I can make your mind float in paradise and your body hum with pleasure. I want to make you mine right here. But I need you to confirm it.”

“ _Yes,”_ the witcher bites out again. “ _Jaskier - please._ ” Because his arousal is so hard it’s painful, and his legs are spread and his body is hot and - 

_Geralt’s medallion hums._


	2. Captured: Jaskier

Jaskier enjoys playing in the taverns surrounding Caed Myrkvid. Sometimes he wanders as far north as Rivia, and others as far south as Beauclair for a change of scenery. At the height of summer, he makes the pilgrimage to Dol Blathanna and soaks up the power of the solstice rituals and dedications. During those warm, heady nights, he can practically taste the mirth and the passion on the air in the sweet scent of pheromones and the tingle of magic. He gets swept up in the heady euphoria of human happiness. Yet, he cannot stay away from his forest for long, not without a bonded mate he can follow far and wide.

He returns to Caed Myrkvid like clockwork, and every year as spring approaches he tries to find himself a partner with which to bond. The biological drive is pointless for him. He cannot reproduce like his sisters and then discard the _donor,_ but he can establish a link; he can appease the urge by bonding with a mate for life. He yearns to have someone to love, and for someone to love him in return. He knows his life will be complete when he walks at their side.

It’s not easy. Not in his natural state - as beautiful as it is - and those that would humour him often harbour nefarious intent. So, he adopts a glamour and frequents the taverns. He finds beautiful people - men, women, those in between - and he takes them to bed. He pleasures them, he breathes adoration into their skin and he worships their beauty. _He falls in love every time._ It’s never enough. In the morning, they are always gone; the link - the bond - is never there.

It’s been some years since he reached sexual maturity and his search for a mate began, and he’s beginning to resign himself to a lifetime of falling in and out of love; an eternity of eventual rejection and loneliness. He will _never_ find anyone. He’s a _freak._ Despised by his own kind, and unwanted by humanity in his natural form. So he plays, he sings, he performs and absorbs adoration in the purest way he can.

He’s... content.

_Until a hunter with golden eyes walks into Belhaven._

The witcher captures Jaskier’s attention the moment he steps through the door. He’s broad, brooding, and devastatingly handsome, with hair the colour of moonlight. Jaskier sings a little louder, but the hunter ignores him. There’s a scrap of paper in his hand and he makes a beeline for the bar. The innkeep points him back towards a group of hunters and the alderman. The witcher sits. They talk.

Jaskier has been listening to the hunters complain about him since the very beginning of the year. So, he’s started to act out _a bit_. A few wagons here, the odd attempt to entice a strapping young merchantman off the trail there. It’s their own fault for using ugly, vicious traps on the animals of the forest; if they would only hunt in the _right_ way. 

The witcher sits so straight. He’s so _still._ Jaskier doesn’t miss a beat, he doesn’t drop a note, but his attention isn't on the music anymore. His eyes wander away to make sure his gaze isn't felt; this is _definitely_ a predator after all. Predators are finely tuned beasts. They are aware of their surroundings. The witcher interrogates his inferiors, and then dismisses them tartly. Jaskier watches him leave.

He manages to finish his song before he follows.

The dryad watches his hunter from the shadows. The way his shoulders bunch as he walks through the town and deals with the tanner. He makes eye contact only when he has to; his nose twitches, his eyes squint. Everything is too loud, too smelly, _too much_ , for this wild creature. He is cowed and wary; guarded and threatened. Someone has _wounded_ his hunter before. Perhaps in more ways than one.

Jaskier follows him into the wilderness, but breaks off to take a different route into the forest. He sheds his glamour, stashes his lute at home, and then he whispers with the forest to find his quarry. The trees know where he is. The hunter’s foraging. Jaskier finds him. He melds in with nature. Barely present, invisible amongst the leaves; he crouches low and he watches.

His hunter is at home out here. He is more at ease. The tension has gone from his back and shoulders; his head is up, his movements are graceful. His hunter prowls with purpose. He’s in his element. _Beautiful_. Jaskier is enchanted. So much, in fact, that he forgets himself for a moment. His gaze becomes too heavy and his hunter tenses. He stills completely. Jaskier mirrors him and sinks back. 

_Too close. Need to be more careful._

With his crop, the witcher returns to his horse. Jaskier sits high in a tree and watches him work. The flourish of magic tingles across Jaskier’s skin as Igni sets some twigs alight, and he sniffs the air to sample the decoctions the witcher mixes. _Let me look at you again_. Jaskier lifts his hand and commands a distant vine. A brittle twig snaps and his hunter uncoils like cobra. His golden eyes are bright, his muscles move fluidly beneath his pale skin and his hair of silver sweeps back over his shoulder. 

Jaskier holds his breath. For a moment, he fears his heart will give him away, because he can barely contain the excitement his hunter elicits from him. He is… _ethereal._ The witcher cannot trace him and returns to his work; Jaskier leaves him and returns home to wait.

It doesn’t take long. The dryad sits in his cave, his eyes closed, as he listens to his forest whisper. 

_He’s nearly here. The hunter’s coming._

The glade protects itself. As soon as the witcher takes a step amongst the fungi, the spores start working their magic. They slip into his lungs and his bloodstream; not even a witcher’s mutagens, enhanced by his toxins, can fight a concentrated mass of them. His senses will cloud, his reflexes will slow; a human would become inert, a witcher will become… Jaskier doesn’t really know. 

He waits a little longer for his hunter to walk further into the snare.

And then he strikes.

Only one or two vines at first; he wants to watch his hunter flex and skirmish. 

_Look at his eyes. Look at his skin. Look at how beautiful he is._

If anything, his hunter has made himself _more_ enchanting. Eyes obsidian black, his pale skin like marble, with dark lines running through pallid alabaster. Jaskier trips him, but his hunter continues to battle the odds. The burning flare of Igni _hurts_ him. Not physically. He can feel the pain of the wounded plant. 

_None of that, beautiful hunter._

Jaskier snares his casting hand, and then sends in more vines. He overwhelms the witcher until he is suspended and writhing. The dryad allows him to thrash, and then he catches it. _The scent._ It’s a low, barely perceptible musk beneath the intense bloom of his hunter’s natural scent. _Arousal._

_Oh, how delightful._

Jaskier steps out into the light. “Stop struggling, dear heart. You won’t be able to break through these bonds.” He walks further into the clearing and stands below his captive. This close, his grandeur is overwhelming. “How beautiful.”

“You’re a dryad.” His hunter can barely breathe; his pupils are blown wide, his skin is flushed, and his muscles are bulging through the restraints of the vines.

“Well spotted,” Jaskier smiles, “and you are a witcher. Now that we’ve got that out of the way - .”

“Dryads are female.” The witcher blurts out, and Jaskier’s irritation causes the vines to tighten. It has a very _pleasing_ effect. Because - _oh, dear Melitele_ \- his witcher is getting _hard._ Jaskier can smell it; thick, and heavy. He can see it too. The witcher’s trousers are torn, and his magnificent prick is bare, but Jaskier keeps his eyes up for now. If he can just - if he can convince this beautiful creature to - 

“Yes. Most of the time. Unfortunately for me, the Black Sun had other ideas. Now, my name is Jaskier. And you are - ?”

“Going to fucking kill you,” the hunter spits, angry, but his body is betraying him. Jaskier can smell the pheromones in his sweat; the arousal spikes when Jaskier has one of the vines tighten on his thigh. His hunter hangs his head, “What have you done to me?”

“Well, Going To Fucking Kill You. I’m afraid your trespass triggered one of this glade’s defence mechanisms,” Jaskier says, and can’t help himself; he needs to touch. His fingertips flutter down the stubble of his hunter’s jaw, relishing the rasp of coarse hair. “It’s not deadly. It will just zap that witcher strength of yours for a little while. Make you feel… well, high - ah, ah. Don’t bite.” He draws his hand away quickly, his heart hammering in his chest, and now his own lust crests beyond his control. His cock begins to fill. _Oh, he wants this ethereal, fierce beast._ He doesn’t want to _tame_ him. He wants to _relish_ that ferocity. Feel it writhe and rumble beneath his hands. Jaskier reaches for the silver pendant swinging free from the vines’ grasp. “A wolf,” he looks to the witcher’s eyes, “a white wolf. Feral, and strong, and beautiful.”

Jaskier pets his witcher - _for this one will now be his -_ and he watches his expression falter. _That iron control is fracturing._ His captive finally bites out a name. “Geralt. My name… is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers back, reverently. “Why are you here, Geralt? Witchers hunt monsters. I’m no monster.” _He can’t help himself._ The vines creep a little higher. He allows the material of Geralt’s clothes to fall out of their grasp; he wants the hunter to feel the oily slick of the nectar seeping from the end of his binds. With a witcher’s sensitivity, it will set him aflame. He knows why Geralt is here. He just wants to keep him talking, allow that fervour to build just a little higher.

“You’re attacking hunters, destroying their traps, kidnapping and killing men.”

With an irritable huff, and Jaskier places his hands on his hips. “The traps do not extend the animals the appropriate level of respect. How can one pay homage and thanks to a creature’s spirit if they die alone and frightened? As for the men, I kill only in self defence. Life is precious. Even _human_ life. Besides, I was only attempting to make contact for - .” He trails off. Instead, he lifts a hand again to pet that handsome face, allowing himself to wander a little lower to his neck.

“For… what? Contact for - what?”

“A mate,” Jaskier feels breathless; he commands the vines to remove the last vestiges of Geralt’s armour, breaking buckles and straps that do not give freely, and then places a palm over his heart. “Even though I have been ostracised by my own kind, I still have my natural urges.” _His heart beats so strongly._ Jaskier moves his fingers under the contours of Geralt’s pectoral muscles, and then down his abdomen. He has seen witchers before; they're usually thin, haggard, beaten. This one isn’t. He’s healthy and strong.

“And if you mate, you’ll leave the village alone. You’ll leave the hunters.”

“Yes, I’m not particularly fond of humanity, although I do so love their music. The traps mustn’t return, but they would be welcome to travel through and hunt in a traditional manner. I would have no dealings with their hunters or traders.” Jaskier chooses his words _carefully._ He does not lie. At least, not with any _real_ intent. Sometimes the truth can be bent _a little_ to fit a different narrative. He doesn’t tell Geralt that he will stay with his mate - that they will be bound together - that his mate will want to be with him too, and they will leave this forest together. 

“Fine. I’ll - I’ll find you a mate.”

Jaskier smiles. _Silly hunter._ “Oh, but I’ve already caught myself one. And, by the look of things, he’s rather enjoying himself in my snare.” He drops his eyes now to admire Geralt; he’s thick, and long. The swollen head drips precum into the soil, the thick veins bulging with blood, _begging to be touched._

_“Fuck.”_

His hunter is… ashamed. Jaskier knows a few things about witchers. He knows they are meant to be emotionless, unfeeling beasts, but only a few hours around Geralt has proven that to be a fallacy. They are mutated to the point of being monstrous. _His witcher is beautiful._ Not a single monstrous feature. This one flushes, he feels embarrassment; he was uncomfortable in the village, and now - Jaskier learns - he _represses_ strong feelings, because he - Jaskier isn't sure. He wants to find out.

“Oh, my dear witcher. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve known many a man, in my short time, to get excited by restraint, by loss of power, particularly those used to being so in control all the time. Kings, emperors, generals… witchers.” He cups his witcher’s jaw. “I can offer you some relief, if you wish.”

 _Dishonest. This part was dishonest._ His hunter doesn’t _know_ what he's being offered. Not really. He's misty-eyed, _aroused_ , and wanting. Jaskier pushes the guilt down, because he _knows._ He _knows_ this is the man.

“I’m… a witcher. You - I’m - .”

 _Jaskier’s heart broke._ Not because he had been rejected - far from it - but because Geralt’s first instinct is to point out that he is… _not good enough?_ He focuses on his otherness - the very thing that makes him beautiful - and presents it as a problem. Jaskier decides to gentle him with a little humour, “We’ve already covered the introductions. So, my beautiful white wolf, what is your answer?”

The vines ripple. It’s not intentional. Jaskier is excited. His own cock is hard; the cloth has been shifted aside by its prominent length and he longs to slide it into his hunter. To claim him. 

“Yes.” It’s quiet. Reluctant. _Not good enough._

Jaskier steps closer, their faces merely inches apart, and strokes a thumb along Geralt’s jaw. “I need to hear it a bit louder, Geralt. I can make you feel amazing. I can make your mind float in paradise and your body hum with pleasure. I want to make you mine right here. But I need you to confirm it.”

“Yes,” the witcher stutters. “ _Jaskier - please._ ” 

It’s all Jaskier needs. A confirmation. He strokes his fingers through Geralt’s hair and he can feel the draw - the irrevocable magnetism - as his soul reaches out for his hunter. The bond is to be made under the watchful eyes of the forest; the wild will be their witness as they consummate their union.

_The dryad will have his hunter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dryads are _always_ female in canon (information [here](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Dryad)), however, Jaskier is an exception born during the madness that was the Black Sun. This would make Jaskier twenty-seven when he meets Geralt.


	3. Mated

Jaskier leans up and tries to kiss his witcher, but Geralt turns his head away. “Hm. Geralt, if I am to mate properly, you will need to kiss me.”

“It’s - ,” Geralt struggles again; he’s not surrendering, not yet, “the potions. They’re toxic.”

“Oh, my love,” Jaskier smiles, “to humans, perhaps. You don’t need to fear.” He slides a hand through Geralt’s hair and looks into those obsidian orbs. They contain flecks of gold now; like stars blinking in a midnight sky. “Just let your worries go, Geralt. You’re safe with me. I won’t hurt you.”

Geralt looks into the blue eyes below and he lets out the breath he’d been holding; some tension eases with it. When their lips meet, it steals the rest of the breath from his chest and he’s left feeling dizzy. _Drunk_. Soft lips close over his lower, teeth graze and nip, then he surrenders to the tentative tongue that sweeps into his mouth. Jaskier tastes of honeycomb and spring water; sweet and fresh. No one has _ever_ kissed him this tenderly; it rattles him down to his very core and a quiet sigh escapes before he can crush it. Soft hands stroke over his chest; thumbs over his nipples in slow circles until they harden and Geralt shivers.

“Ahh, sensitive,” Jaskier pulls away just a touch and smiles into Geralt’s lips. He takes one nipple between his finger and thumb when it hardens and squeezes; Geralt gasps, eyes shut as his teeth bite down on the sound. “Oh, no no, my dear. You won’t be holding back. I want all of you.”

Jaskier motions with one hand and the vines adjust. They lift Geralt vertically, tilting his chest, careful to maintain their control of the predator within their grasp, until Jaskier has Geralt’s cock at his eye level. He just admires at first, his breath hot against the tip, studying the elegant curve of it; the impressive girth and length that surpasses anything Jaskier has seen outside of his own prick. He watches precum bead and drip down the length of the swollen shaft, and then, as his witcher gazes down at him, he takes the thick head into his mouth and suckles. Geralt tenses, his thighs solid, his stomach clenching, but he can’t move. He’s helpless. The realisation washes through him with the force of a tsunami crashing onto the shore; he was _aware,_ but now he _knows._ He’s a play thing for as long as this dryad wants to use him. _It feels -_

“Mmm,” the witcher presses his lips together, clenches his hands into fists, but he can’t help the low, guttural moan as Jaskier’s mouth slides down his length. The tip of a devilish tongue circles behind his head, and Geralt’s body is on fire. It doesn’t help that one of those smooth vines is now stroking across the tender flesh of his cleft. The secretions are oiling the way and he can feel it dripping down his skin. He tenses, but the bindings around his legs spread them further and that vine begins to rub in earnest; sliding up and down his tenderest skin, over his entrance and balls. “ _Fuck - ahh.”_ His back coils, because he wants to arch _into it_ , but he _can’t._ The tip is circling his hole firmly, focused with intent, and he moans again.

Jaskier watches Geralt with lidded eyes. His nostrils flare, greedily inhaling the musk of Geralt’s desire; the lust, the desperation, the feral intensity of his need. The vines adjust. They bend Geralt’s knees forward, but keep them splayed wide either side of Jaskier’s head; they present that beautiful, toned ass with its tight hole, and the inquisitive tendril that has been circling, teasing, slowly eases inside.

Geralt cries out when it breaches him and throws his head back. The glide is smooth. The vine draws back, and then pushes in a little further; the muscles have no choice but to yield. Geralt pushes back against it, but that just _intensifies_ the sensation. It pulses and writhes and Geralt’s body spasms as his vision edges in white. _It’s overwhelming._ He should be disgusted, but he’s not. Geralt _yearns._ He’s never been _used_ like this, never had his power ripped from him, never been so entirely _weak_. His witcher strength, his skill, his fortitude; torn away, rendered useless. He can do nothing but submit. The beast inside him howls with pleasure; he wants to spread his legs further _somehow_. _He wants to be held down and -_

As his body relaxes, the vine begins to move in and out of him in a slow, lazy rhythm. It takes only a minor change in angle for it to find his prostate, and with each thrust it brushes over that nerve centre and forces moans from deep in his chest. “Ahh - fuck - ahh, nnn, mmm, Jask - ier.” He wants to rut, wants to grind back, but he… _he can’t._ The slurp of Jaskier’s mouth and the filthy sound of the oiled vine in his ass are the only noises in the clearing aside from the bird song and the trickle of distant water. _It’s… peaceful._ The pleasure washes over him and Geralt goes limp in his bindings; he watches Jaskier bob up and down on his cock, sucking and swallowing, and his orgasm blooms slowly; a warm tide that floods through every muscle until he’s consumed, _on fire_.

His cock empties into Jaskier’s mouth and the dryad drinks from him with hunger. The vine pleasuring his hole continues, and Geralt feels a second glide over his balls, soft and slick. It tugs at his rim as the other bends upwards; he gasps and whimpers as it begins to stretch him more. In only three more thrusts, the second joins the first and suddenly he’s _so full_. It feels like they’ll rip him in half. Every nerve-ending _sings_. Their surface ripples and throbs, and his jaw grows slack. _It feels - so good._

“Oh, you’re so beautiful,” Jaskier whispers, lifting his hands to cup Geralt’s face. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To be so full. Your skin is sensitive too. The spores must be doing that.” As if to _test it,_ Jaskier sweeps his hands down Geralt’s neck to his chest. He kneads, massages, and strokes his nipples and Geralt moans wantonly. Jaskier’s touch sends ripples through his very core. He wants those hands everywhere. They rest on his shoulders and push lightly. Jaskier is watching his face as he’s penetrated by the vines under his control. _Geralt likes it._ He likes the fact that Jaskier is _forcing_ this pleasure, and observing its effect. _He wants to be held down and - fucked._

“Jaski - aah, ahh.” The vines move a little faster, thrusting in deep, swelling to stretch him more. His cock is hardening again, and Jaskier blinks down at it in pleased surprise.

“Well, that’s one rumour proven correct,” he purrs, and then the vines withdraw from Geralt with a wet slurp. He’s _so_ open. Feels empty. He bites back on the whine, and presses his thighs into the grip of his bindings. _They don’t yield, and Geralt’s arousal swells._

His body lowers closer to the ground, horizontal now, level with Jaskier’s hips. The dryad lines up behind him and Geralt feels those soft hands slide over his thighs and the globes of his ass. “Oh, _Geralt._ You’re so _wet._ So _ready_ for me. I’m going to breed you, Geralt. Mark you as mine. My wolf, my witcher. Gods, my cum is going to leak out of you. You’re gaping. I’m _so_ hard for you.”

“Nnngh,” Geralt moans, muscles challenging the grip of the vines; he can’t think. There isn’t a single coherent thought in his head. Just the desire to have Jaskier’s cock inside him. “ _Please._ Fuck me - aa-ahh!” A smooth length of vine slides over his balls and prick; it wraps around Jaskier’s thigh, Geralt’s waist and finally begins to tease him in lascivious pulses of movement. “J _askier.”_ He needed it. Like it was the final stage of _something._ Teetering on the edge of -

Jaskier wraps his hands around Geralt’s hips and presses inside him. It’s so soft, so warm, and the dryad tips his head back to moan. He moves slowly; he wants Geralt to _feel_ him. He wants Geralt to _know_ he’s being claimed. Every glorious inch of Jaskier’s cock in his ass a reminder of who he is bonding with. With each thrust, Jaskier presses deep and then draws all the way out, but Geralt’s body is keen now. It’s clenching and sucking at him, desperate for another release. “Tell me how you want me to claim you, witcher.”

“Hard,” Geralt stutters, his cock leaking again, his chest pressing against the vine wound around it even as the others kept his legs spread and bent for the deepest possible penetration. “Please. Please, Jaskier - fuck - .” 

The dryad clutches his hip with one hand and knots the other through his hair, pulling his head back. A vine pushes between his lips, pressing down on his tongue, touching the back of his throat, and Geralt is _full._ Full of Jaskier’s cock, full of the agents of his control, and his eyes roll back for the rawest, hardest fuck he’s ever had. Every pounding thrust sends a shockwave through him that melts conscious thought; his prostate is under permanent assault, his cock encased in a slick, pulsing vine that strips him in time with the brutal pace set by its master.

“Oh Geralt - you’re so beautiful - look at you - look how your ass ripples when I thrust into you - your thighs are so muscular, so solid - you’re built for combat, you’re fierce and brave; a warrior - but I’m claiming you - you’re mine - ,” Jaskier is babbling, he knows, but the witcher before him is _breathtaking._ The way his powerful body yields so willingly now that it has given up its fight; he wants to be taken, to be restrained, and fucked, and owned, “- you want this, don’t you? You like that I’ve got you under my control - you can’t do anything - you don’t _need to_ , Geralt. I’ve got you - I’ll make you float, my love - I’ll make your body sing.”

Jaskier works another climax from his lover almost effortlessly. The relentless, deep thrust of his hips coupled with the melodic trill of his voice is enough to drive Geralt to insanity. His cum erupts over the smooth bark of the vine around his cock and spatters across the soil in dense streaks; his entire body seizes with it, but Jaskier hammers into him until he finds his peak. Geralt can feel the thick cock in his ass pulsing, filling him, and he moans in… relief. The heat floods his senses. He feels _complete._

The grip around his chest and his cock eases. His mouth empties, and a trail of saliva stretches from his tongue as the vine withdraws. His eyes are closed, his body limp, so he doesn’t realise his perspective has changed until soft spring grass brushes over his back. Jaskier straddles him, sitting over his stomach. His restraints have adjusted; they hold just his wrists, forearms, ankles and calves now. Enough to keep him still, but the rest of his skin is free for exploration. “Relax.” The dryad whispers.

“Wha - ?” Geralt tries to speak, but his throat is raw and his jaw hurts. His eyes have returned to normal. The potions are gone from his system. His conqueror is admiring him; his face flush with adoration, delicate ears twitching and blue eyes glowing. Geralt feels very _seen._ He pushes into the hands that settle on him though, because he… can’t help it.

“No, no. Don’t speak. You don’t need to.” Jaskier leans over and presses their chests together, his hands splaying out to stroke across thick biceps. He kisses Geralt gently and hums in delight when the witcher _kisses back._ The dryad lifts his ass into the air and those smooth vines wind their way up his thighs, spreading him apart; he moans into Geralt’s mouth as he commands one to circle his own rim, and then slowly push inside. 

Geralt sucks in a staggered breath as he watches the dryad _pleasure himself_ . For that’s what he’s doing; the vines are his to command. The witcher _watches_ as the kiss breaks off and Jaskier worships his throat and shoulders. He _watches_ those vines thrust into Jaskier’s pert ass and - _fuck_ \- he’s getting hard _again._ This was meant to be over, but - he remembers how they feel. The wet sounds of the vine slipping easily in and out of Jaskier’s hole are incensing; Geralt groans and bucks his hips. Instinctive, animalistic. _He’s so far down this rabbit hole he just doesn’t give a fuck._

Jaskier chuckles. “Oh, Geralt, your eyes are so expressive - mm - do you like what you - ahh - see? I’m going to ride your fat cock, I want to feel it. Ahh - just got to - nngh - make sure I’m ready for you.” The dryad reaches between his thighs and takes Geralt’s huge length in hand; he pumps him slowly and keeps his chest low so that Geralt can watch his ass be spread for him. When the witcher is bucking and grunting, Jaskier finally sinks down onto him. He arches his back and lets out a deep, wanton groan as he takes _all_ Geralt has to give. “Dear Melitele, you. Are. A _god._ ” Jaskier rolls his hips slowly, and Geralt gasps and swears. He thrusts up, but his limbs are still spread, he can’t get purchase. “Don’t worry, wolf. I’m going to ride you properly.”

And Jaskier does. He sets a glorious pace and gyrates on Geralt’s cock with all the skill and athleticism of a professional. The heavy length of his own erection bounces enticingly against Geralt’s stomach - inhumanly big - and Geralt keens. “Ahh, fuck, Jaskier - ahh - fuck - .” His voice is hoarse, barely usable, but he can’t help the stream of praise as the dryad’s body clutches at him.

“Geralt, you’re so _big -_ how no one has - unngh - captured you as a - _fuck_ \- pleasure slave or - ahh ahh,” Jaskier ruts down, because he can feel Geralt twitching; he’s so overstimulated, so raw and open, that his orgasm is easily within reach. “Oh gods, yes - Geralt - come in me, fill me - _fuck, yes.”_ Jaskier grinds against Geralt’s hips as the witcher arches; he barely has enough to give now, but his body still valiantly shudders through its pleasure. _Next time, Jaskier would ensure there was enough._

The witcher’s lips are parted. So full. Wet. The ghost memory of the vine that filled that mouth not long ago filters to the forefront of Jaskier’s mind, and his cock twitches with interest. _Oh, to put your cock in the predator’s jaws._ He slips from Geralt’s cock, leaving it to fall wetly against the witcher’s stomach, and straddles his chest. The vines move his arms a little higher so that Jaskier can tuck his knees comfortably beneath them. He slides a thumb into Geralt’s mouth and the witcher submits instantly, jaw falling open; he smooths the pad around white teeth, teasing across his canines and then his tongue. Geralt seems to know what he wants to do, because his pupils blow wide and a gasp of breath explodes across the back of Jaskier’s hand.

“Mm, will my fierce wolf bite me, or will he take his pleasure?” Jaskier purrs, and then he leans forward. The head of his cock rests over Geralt’s lower lip, and the witcher extends the tip of his tongue. It laps at the sensitive join behind the head of Jaskier’s cock and the dryad hums in delight. “Ahh, so he has decided.” He cants his hips and slides his cock into Geralt’s mouth. A mouth that had seethed and bitten at him, now pliant and wanting. _This_ is his mates final submission to him. _It needs to be rewarded._

“Do you want to know how good your cock felt in me, Geralt?” Jaskier thrust his hips forward slowly, the head of his cock just brushing the back of the witcher’s throat for now. A quiet moan rumbles from the Witcher’s chest, with the barest nod. “Shall I show you?” Another rumbling grunt. The vines around Geralt’s legs spread and pin them back; two more bind together in a ridged swirl and slowly push against Geralt’s wet and gaping hole. The witcher bucks eagerly and Jaskier chuckles. The vines ease into him and Geralt cries out around the bulk of Jaskier’s cock. “You were so big - this big - but I thought I’d add a few ridges to make it feel even better - .”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s mouth properly. He braces his hands against the ground and rolls his hips forward. The vines fucking into Geralt now follow the cadence of his rhythm and his witcher comes undone completely. Pinned, helpless, with his legs spread and his mouth full of cock, he looks deliciously wrecked. Jaskier knows he will be ruined for anyone else, and he can see the mark appearing over Geralt’s heart; a sprig of beech leaves. No bigger than two inches in length and a deep, inky black. _Jaskier’s mark._ The dryad gasps in elation; the euphoria is enough and their pleasure crests together. Geralt has nothing left to spend and just disintegrates, and Jaskier withdraws to avoid choking him, instead he splashes cum over his chin and neck. He shuffles back and licks his mate clean. 

Geralt passes out, and the vines vanish.


	4. Bound

Geralt wakes wrapped in soft, warm fur to the sound of running water. Sprawled on his front, he keeps his eyes closed as he stretches out his other senses. He can smell chamomile and jasmine blossom; in addition to the stream, he can hear the soft tremor of lute strings and hummed vocables. _The bard from the tavern._

Amber eyes open slowly and the cave fades blearily into view. Geralt feels - _odd_. Not in a bad way. He's relaxed; his muscles supple, filled with a dull, enjoyable ache. His head's light and airy too; he wants to lay curled in the blankets for longer. _He's... content._

"Gorgeous garroter - hmm, no," the voice trills. "Ahh, you're awake. Take it slowly. The first time is always a little taxing." 

Geralt growls and pushes himself up onto hands and knees. His medallion hums briefly and his eyes fall on the bard sitting not two metres away. Tousled brown hair, cornflower blue eyes, his build athletic and his skin a tanned pink. It's definitely the dryad. The scent is the same. "You were in the tavern when I picked up the contract."

"Yes," Jaskier smiles, sheepish. "I - uh - I told you I liked their music. Well, I like it so much I've learned to play lots of instruments, and I compose my own material, and - Geralt, you should rest some more, it's - ahh, okay. No - no touching at the moment."

The dryad withdraws his hand from where it'd rested on Geralt's forearm. The witcher staggers from the furs, legs unsteady; he touches his hip, which glistens still with a light oil. "What's this?" _Chamomile._

"Oh, it's chamomile lotion. You had some bruises from our love making, and your ass was probably sore, so I massaged some of it in. You seemed to enjoy it. Although you were floating at the time. You blacked out for a while too."

Geralt doesn't remember that part. He growls and heads to the stream. His hands cup in the water and he brings it to his face. Despite his irritation, he still feels… _good_. He hasn't yet thought about what they'd done. _He'd_ done. But - "Where's my armour?"

"Oh, I put it on Roach." Jaskier beams, and then his eyes widen when Geralt turns on him.

"If you've hurt my horse, I will cut your head off."

"Why would I - ? Oh Geralt, dear heart. I only brought her here so she wasn't wandering the forest looking for you," he raises his hands, placating. "Please, she's a loyal beast. She loves you dearly. We had quite a nice conversation, actually - I -."

"Where is she?"

"Just outside the cave mouth." 

It isn't a lie. Now that Geralt listens, he can hear her snuffling and munching at the grass. The sudden shot of adrenalin has shattered his peace. _He feels sick._ "I need proof of your death."

Jaskier blinks. "There won't be any more problems, I give you my word - please don't kill me -."

The witcher growls, impatient. "Give me the medallion around your neck. It's proof enough."

"My - my medallion?" Jaskier lifts a hand to his chest, face drawn. He doesn't want to hand it over. It's the only thing he has that -

He looks at his hunter. Broad, beautiful, strong. His shining amber eyes and silver hair, with his tapestry of scars across a perfectly proportioned body. His mate. _His love_. The request isn't intended to hurt him, but to protect him. If his hunter needs it, then he shall have it. "Okay, here, take it." The dryad hands it over - a golden circle embedded with sapphires - and for a moment his fingers brush across those of his mate; he feels the draw of their connection like static electricity.

So does Geralt, because he snatches his hand away in surprise. But rather than address it, he returns to business. "If I find out you've broken your word, I will be back for your head. Do you understand?" He lifts a hand to his chest then, subconsciously, and when he realises he looks beneath his palm. He sees the mark on his chest and furrows his brow. _Fuck_. Ignore. Ignore it. If it becomes problematic, he'll visit Nenneke.

Jaskier wants to pull his hunter back to the furs and take him all over again, but he senses the unease and so let's him go. With only a single backwards glance to a cave that had been his home for many years, he follows his mate out into the sun and his new life. Geralt pulls fresh clothes from his pack - braies, black trousers, black shirt - and dresses quickly. Jaskier hums. "It's such a shame you have to wear so many clothes, you know. You would look stunning in just a dryad's - oh, come now. I've seen everything. And trust me, I am not disappointed." He waves a hand at the scathing look.

Geralt leads Roach out of the forest without another word, and heads into town; he needs to visit the tanner to get his armour repaired. He tries to ignore the well of odd… feelings in his head. If he examines them too closely, they look a bit too much like vulnerability. Once clear of the trees, he throws himself up into Roach's saddle and puts distance between him and the dryad.

_He doesn't get far._

The annoying runt turns up at the tanner and chirps at him about inane nonsense even as he straps his armour into place. Geralt says nothing in reply. He pays the tanner, collects his payment from the hunters, quickly eats some watered down stew and finally returns to Roach's saddle. His verbose companion pursues him for most of it.

He'll be glad to leave this town - and it's annoying bardic dryad - well behind him.

 _Except he can’t seem to leave him behind_. 

Every time he puts too much distance between them, Geralt finds himself drawing Roach to a stop; he waits for the dryad to catch up, and then he continues. There’s another problem as well. He feels like absolute shit. His mood is low - _lower than normal_ \- and he's on edge in a way that doesn't usually follow him into the wilderness. His teeth grit, and his hands clench. For lack of a better word, Geralt feels raw. Riding Roach proves to be too uncomfortable, so he hops down and leads her by the rein. The dryad bounds up to him.

“You know, while you were collecting your payment, I did a little bit of investigating,” Jaskier beams. “I spoke to the tavern folk and they said you’re famous - .”

“Go away.” Geralt grates out.

“- actually, I was hoping to escort you on your noble voyage. I enjoy writing and singing songs about adventure you see, and you, my friend, are chock full of them. You have this scent about you - death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. What is that, anyway?”

“It’s onion.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Jaskier falls silent for all of about two seconds. “I was serious, you know. About being your barker. I will spread the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt ignores it outwardly, but his insides shrivel as they do every time someone blurts out his moniker. He's used to it. "Leave me alone. I don't travel with anyone. Never have, never will."

“Geralt, Geralt, wait -,” Jaskier, who has been standing in the path with his arms stretched, jogs to catch up. “I - I can’t leave you. It’s - there’s - umm - .”

The witcher stops again. “What? Spit it out.”

“Well, you see, I - because we mated, we’re now, kind of - ,” Jaskier plasters on his most endearing smile, “ - we’re bonded. I need to be at your side. And, uh - well, it’s not good for either of us if I’m not.”

Geralt stares. “What?”

“I’m the only male dryad in existence and, um - nature’s way of evening out the odds, as it were, was to make me seek out a mate for life, rather than a one off donor,” he pauses, blue eyes wide and adoring. “And that’s you.”

Geralt isn’t - believe it or not - a violent man. Not usually. When he can, Geralt prefers to talk his way out of problems. He never uses his brute strength against weaker creatures or those that cannot meaningfully defend themselves. A punch from a witcher shatters bone and ruptures organs, because that's what he's built for. Pain and death. But suddenly the mark on his chest - the sprig of beeches - makes sense. Geralt turns to Jaskier, his expression placid even though the anger roils beneath the surface. “Come here.”

The dryad bounds up to him, trusting, and then crumples as Geralt’s fist hits him in the gut. The force is minor. A fraction of Geralt's strength. It's enough to send the dryad sprawling. The witcher turns calmly and continues down the path, “Come on, Roach.” 

He gets maybe ten paces, before the dryad has caught up. "It's a beautiful thing, Geralt. You'll - you'll see in time." The witcher casts him a baleful glance, but Jaskier notices he hasn't been chased off, or verbally dismissed. One punch isn't really a proper 'go away'. To be honest, he probably deserved it.

"Hm," Geralt hums, and says nothing more.

“Geralt - what does - ? What does that mean? Are we - ? Is this - ? Oh, what a beautiful flower. Geralt, look, oh, Geralt, Geralt… I was talking to…” And it continues. 

Geralt’s feeling… _odd_. That _rawness_ is bothering him. If he wasn’t a witcher, he’d call it _fragile_. He isn’t even dealing with what he desired in that forest; it’s just… _too much_. He has never - 

_The dryad is still talking._

Of all the fucking dryads to take a liking to him, he had to find the most annoying, loud, tactile one on the Continent.

And yet, Geralt… doesn't really want him to go.

 _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it, folks. 
> 
> ~~But the question is, do you like dryad Jaskier? Would you like to read more?~~
> 
> _Edit:_ The consensus is _more Dryad Jaskier please_ , so I'll be adding to this fic'. Plenty to explore, and thanks to those that have mentioned things they'd like to see.


	5. Unfamiliar

Geralt tries to get rid of Jaskier. He tries _everything._

Most people are completely repulsed by his ‘otherness’, but the dryad seems to be _attracted_ to it. As they walk the dusty paths through Rivia, Lyria and eventually Aedirn, Jaskier repeatedly remarks on how _lovely_ his eyes are, how it’s like _someone has captured the moonlight and woven it into your hair_ and how _handsome_ he is _._ Geralt just stares at him, occasionally he grunts, but he hopes that if he just _ignores_ him, Jaskier will eventually get bored and wander off in search of more _interesting_ pastures.

 _It doesn’t work._ In fact, the more he growls and glares, the closer Jaskier seems to get. Geralt feels like he spends half his days ducking and weaving away from attempts to touch him; a hand on the forearm here, a pat on the back there, and on one horrific occasion an attempt to brush a smudge of gore from his cheek. 

The tenderness is confusing. _No one_ wants to touch him, let alone with care. When they do - the handing over of payment, the exchange of a note or contract - it’s with brisk detachment. Even the whores for whom he pays handsomely - there’s a witcher’s surcharge, he’s certain - prefer to look away and pretend it’s someone else’s prick driving them to their third orgasm. But Jaskier _looks_ for any excuse. If his attempts at physical contact were sexually motivated, Geralt might find them easier to deal with; slap them away, or snark. But they’re not. And that’s worse. Definitely worse. He’s not sure why.

Thus, the witcher is forced to pursue more pointed, offensive tactics to rid himself of this irksome, energetic urchin. These prove to be just as futile. He snarls at Jaskier when he sings too loudly one afternoon and then is thoroughly taken aback when the bard apologises with a gentle smile. _A gentle smile_ . No one smiles at Geralt like that. _No one smiles at Geralt full stop._ It catches him off guard, and for a moment the feral twist to his scowl evaporates and his ears draw back, smoothing his brow. Jaskier sees and tilts his head. “There’s no accounting for taste, Geralt. But I know the town back there was unpleasant for you, so we can enjoy the natural ambience for a bit.”

 _Natural fucking ambience._ Geralt clenches his jaw and turns his back, fingers tightening around Roach’s bridle. _I know the town back there was unpleasant._ What did he know? What did - ? It’s as if the bard can’t _see_ his bestiality in its truest sense. What does he not understand? A Witcher is more monster than man; a mutant, a freak of magic and mutagens. It doesn’t matter if he finds something unpleasant. He is _made_ to deal with the unpleasant, and worse. 

There’s nothing natural about Geralt. A dryad should be _more_ repulsed than a human. Certainly the female ones he’d encountered have regarded him as a waste of space at best - there’s no point in a sterile male - and an affront to nature at worst.

So Geralt continues to snap, and gnash his teeth, sometimes figuratively and other times _literally_ ; trying to ward off this strange creature that just wants to be _near him_ for apparently no other reason than company and adventure. But he’s running out of ideas. Not even his _eating_ habits are repulsive enough. When he sits down one evening with a freshly caught rabbit and cuts through the pelt with his knife, Jaskier doesn’t even bat an eye as Geralt’s teeth sink into the rump and blood spills down his chin. Instead, he hums thoughtfully, fingers fluttering down over his lute strings. “Ahh, just like your kin. Wolves start with the rump and the organs too.”

Geralt stares. Again. He’s doing that a lot at the moment. The blood seeps from the carcass and drips onto his trousers, and suddenly he feels too self-conscious to eat. He’s used to looks of disgust, not easy, open acceptance. His mind tries to reason. It works itself madly in circles until it finds an explanation that _fits_ with his concept of the world. A dryad would be quite used to seeing animals eat in this way, but a man would be - ah, but of course, Jaskier sees him as more animal than man, ergo, this is fine. Once Geralt reasons himself into territory that at least feels comfortably familiar - he is a beast, Jaskier’s reaction reflects that - he’s able to finish his meal. 

He disappears briefly into the forest to bury the remains away from the campsite and clean the blood from his face. As his reflection ripples in the passing stream, he gazes at it with a furrowed brow. What does Jaskier see when he looks at him? It’s not the same thing as everyone else. If it was, then he would be long gone by now. They wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. Geralt’s fingers flutter distractedly across his chest, and he heaves a sigh. _Bullshit. This is bullshit._ He returns to their makeshift camp to find Jaskier curled up with his lute hugged tight to his chest, knees bunched up and shoulders hunched.

 _He doesn’t actually have anything to sleep on._ It’s still relatively mild - warm even - but when the temperature drops he’ll need something to - _no._ By the time the temperature drops, Geralt will be on his own again, and the dryad will be safely back in a forest where he belongs. Geralt hovers outside the ring of firelight and glances across at his bed roll.

***

Jaskier wakes under the heavy weight of Geralt’s cloak. The witcher’s musky scent permeates the fabric; Jaskier bunches it close to his face and inhales until his lungs are full of it. His eyes flutter and he sighs in contentment. If only it were the man himself. The memory of how he tasted, how he felt and the delicious scent of his pleasure; it was still enticingly fresh. Jaskier keeps the cloak held over his chin as his gaze swivels around the camp, and spots Geralt settling Roach’s tack back in place. 

He spoke to her softly, “I’ll get you some oats in Posada, I know you haven’t had any in a while, and I’m sure there’ll be some apples too. I have enough to get you brushed and cleaned. You’ve earned it. Work harder than me.” The mare swished her tail sedately, and when he walked around the front nudged him in the chest, he leans his forehead to hers as he strokes a hand beneath her chin as she enjoys. “Good girl, Roach.”

His witcher has a heart as golden and bright as his eyes. 

*** 

They’ve been travelling for two weeks now. Rivia and Lyria are behind them; they’re halfway through Aedirn. The contracts are fairly dense but poorly paid; Geralt picks up a wraith, a few necrophage nests, an endrega hatchery and they stumble across another kikimora in a dense, swampy thicket. Each contract, no matter how uneventful, enthralls Jaskier. He grills Geralt for every minor detail, and the Witcher responds with bated silence and growls. “It was a necrophage nest. They smell, and explode. That’s it.”

“Do not fear, dear heart. I’ll spin a yarn so extravagant that none shall question your bravery.”

Geralt just sighs. _Dear heart._ What is he meant to _do_ with that? On top of the constant barrage of… Jaskier, he’s tired. Worn down by months on the road without rest or recuperation. His armour and swords are in need of maintenance, and the materials he has left aren’t enough for the job. When they reach Posada, he’ll need to rent a room, take inventory and restock. The bard has to be gone by then. The prospect of being trapped near him - in close quarters, with four walls - is more than Geralt can handle. It’s not disgust, or repulsion though. It’s -

_Unknown._

They’re three days outside of Posada and Geralt’s too tired to hunt, so he slumps down on his bed roll and curls up, resigned to hunger until he has the energy to sate it. It’s not martyrdom. It’s practicality. Once he’s slept, he’ll have a few more reserves to find something.

The bard slinks off. Geralt’s learned that Jaskier is a _selective_ vegetarian; he eats fish, but mostly prefers foraging for fruit, nuts and wild root vegetables when they stop, so it’s a surprise when the scent of blood curls through Geralt’s nostrils upon the dryad’s return. _Animal_ . The witcher sits up slowly, and looks down at the rabbit that’s placed down with the reverence of a religious offering before a deity’s altar. Geralt… _stares._ “How?”

Jaskier blinks in surprise. “Well, firstly, you’re welcome,” he drawls. “Secondly, I’m a dryad. Animals don’t generally flee when I draw near. Not immediately anyway. I’ve done all the relevant votes of thanks, etcetera. I’ve been _listening_ to your stomach rumbling away for the last three hours.”

Geralt isn’t finished. The next question is the most important. “Why?”

“Well, I assume because you’re hungry. I haven’t seen you eat in at least a day and a half, and - .”

“No,” the witcher sits up properly now, skirting around the rabbit like it’s a thrashing kikimora. “Why did you bother?”

“Why did I bo - ?” Jaskier squints. “Geralt, you’re _tired_ and _hungry._ I - .”

“I don’t want it.” _He really fucking did._ His mouth’s watering at the thought of it. But accepting it feels like accepting something more, and he isn’t sure why. The overwhelming urge to flee - from this slender dryad and a dead rabbit - settles in Geralt’s chest, so he hunkers down and clenches his teeth. 

“Don’t be stupid, of course you want it.”

“No.”

Jaskier sits in silence, his palms on top of his thighs, and studies Geralt closely. The way his shoulders are bunched; the confused furrow to his brow; the relentless flex of his fingers into his palms. He’s hungry. That’s _more_ than obvious, but he’s also - anxious? Confused? Baffled by such a small kindness. “Okay,” Jaskier moves further away. “Well, we’ll leave it for the wolves then. I’ll see you in the morning.” He retreats from Geralt’s side and curls up in the cloak that is always silently placed down for him on the other side of the fire. With his back turned to the witcher, he measures his breathing and closes his eyes. Half an hour passes, and then there’s a shuffle of booted feet readjusting against dry ground; the whisper of a knife leaving a leather sheath and the quiet crack of parting skin and bone. His stubborn wolf has abandoned his pride and caved to his hunger.

Geralt thinks Jaskier is asleep. His breathing is slow, and he hasn’t moved at all apart from the odd sleepy snuffle. A small piece of rabbit isn’t giving in. He cuts himself a square from the rump, inwardly grumbling when he realises that he always _does_ eat the rump and organs first. More nutritious. He eats his small morsel of meat and glares at the dryad's back irritably.

He eats the entire fucking rabbit, and then hides the bones.

***

Posada is a small farming community; they don’t boast much wealth, and their people are simple, but Jaskier still smiles when the familiar set of ramshackle huts and high rope bridges emerge over the horizon. “Oh, Geralt. The last time I was here was for Midsummer solstice. The mead, the songs, the flower wreaths and the dancing. It’s beautiful. I suppose you don’t much enjoy festivals, hm?” 

“No,” Geralt replies quietly. “I’m not exactly welcome either.”

“Their loss.” A pat on Geralt’s arm, and Jaskier bounds ahead down the path. The witcher has stopped trying to dodge him now; he weathers the odd platonic contact with only mild ire. _A step forward._ Jaskier plans to move onto hugging next. It felt so very odd. He has held and possessed Geralt in most ways known to man, and yet he finds himself unwilling to force his way back to that level. Perhaps it’s because they’re outside the safety of his forest, and his witcher has not been enticed by exotic spores and slick vines. It isn’t sex his wolf is frightened of; it’s affection. That took Jaskier all of five minutes to work out.

Once they enter the town proper, Jaskier skips off into the tavern and Geralt stables Roach before heading to the blacksmith. The apprentice takes one look at him and flees back into the hut to collect his master. Wizened and greying, the man that arrives appears more robust and Geralt manages to negotiate a fair price for the two blades on his back. “Meteorite-infused steel,” the blacksmith comments as he pulls the first partway from its scabbard. “Been many years since I’ve seen one of these.”

“I trust it’s in safe hands.”

“Aye, witcher,” the blacksmith smirks. “The best. They’ll be ready for you tomorrow morning.” Because why keep a witcher lingering in town longer than you had to.

Geralt returns to the tavern and orders himself some ale, but no stew. They always put too much salt in it. It’s like drinking seawater. Jaskier is busy swaying and posturing his way around the patrons; his fingers pick effortlessly over the strings of his lute and his tenor maintains a quirky, mischievous lilt. “You think you’re safe, without a care, but here in Posada, you’d be wise to beware. The pike with the spike, lurks in your drawers, or the flying drake that will fill you with horror,” he draws out the notes with a light vibrato. “Need old Nan the hag, to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abortion.”

Geralt frowns. Jaskier clearly ran out of words, or… material. His audience isn’t impressed, and the resulting jeers are followed by a few rotten pieces of food. “Abort yourself!” Geralt’s shoulders bunch and his jaw tenses.

The dryad hunkers down, face screwed up. “Oi! Fuck off!” He lifts his lute from his shoulders. “I’m so glad I could bring you all together like this. Unbelievable.” Content now that Jaskier had stopped singing, the crowd settles and the bard kneels down to scoop up a few loaves of bread, before he saunters over to Geralt.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I want to drink alone, Jaskier.”

“Yeah, good, no one _else_ hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except,” he slipped onto the bench opposite after plucking a drink from a waitress as she wandered by, “for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me, three words or less.”

The witcher squints. _Is he - is he flirting with me?_ It’s the sultry timber of his voice and the slight quirk of his lip. Golden eyes lift slowly from the middle distance to examine it more closely, pupils widening. He sits in complete silence as his mind quickly abandons its foolish ideation. “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.” Geralt growls.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault,” Jaskier blusters, and then stands. “You’re about as forthcoming with the details as a stone. No - a stone is too generous - because even a _stone_ tells a story; its smoothness, its colour, its densi - Geralt, Geralt, where are you - ? Geralt of Rivia, don’t ignore me. Witcher!”

Geralt ignores him, and Jaskier bristles. The White Wolf doesn’t get far though, because a young farmhand calls out. “Witcher, I have a job fer ya’, if yer amendable.”

The offer of work isn’t something Geralt can turn down, not now that he’s spent the last of his coin on repairing his equipment, treating Roach and that mug of ale. It doesn’t matter how much he wants to flee the intensity of Jaskier’s focus. He turns back, “What is it?”

“It’s a devil. Stealin’ all our grain,” the farmhand reaches behind him and plucks a heavy sack of coins from the open palm of his companion. “Hundred ducats. You’re good on your word.” Geralt takes the money and weighs it in his palm.

“My swords are with the blacksmith. I’ll deal with your devil tomorrow morning.”

“Many thanks, witcher.”

One hundred ducats. A lot of money. He could buy himself a room and a bath. _Don’t spend money you haven’t earned yet,_ says an old, wizened voice from his childhood, so Geralt leaves the tavern as he intended and returns to Roach, with Jaskier nipping at his heels.

“Right, I’m coming on this one,” the bard announces, his lute slung over his back, his hands on his hips. “ _They don’t exist._ ” He imitates Geralt’s gravelly rumble. “What kind of feedback is that? Are you trying to ruin me?”

“You’re not coming, Jaskier.” Geralt replies quietly.

“I am. And that’s that. I’ve never heard of a devil before, and I thought I’d encountered most creatures in these parts. It shall be a heroic quest worthy of a full length saga, you’ll see, Geralt - I’ll write a thousand words about your skill with a sword alone, and - .”

Jaskier talks. Geralt sighs, and rests his head against Roach’s neck; he fills his lungs with the scent of fresh hay and fresher horse, and then grabs his bag from the stall. She can sleep in comfort. He’ll pay the stablehand the extra ducats tomorrow. As for himself, he’s not sure he can handle the sounds and scents of humanity tonight.

He doesn’t bother trying to talk Jaskier down as he continues to prattle on about the potential of their ‘adventure’. _Devils don’t exist, and neither does Geralt’s energy to argue._


	6. Elves in the Mountains

“The elves called this Dol Blathanna, before bequeathing it to the humans and retreating into their golden palaces in the mountains,” Jaskier peers over his shoulder at the beautiful valley stretching for miles behind them; he’d never actually been out this far, and was looking forward to seeing these golden palaces for himself. For now, he looks back towards Geralt with a broad grin. “There I go again, just… delivering exposition. Geralt? Geralt? Wh-where are you going?” The witcher disappears around a rocky outcrop, and Jaskier trots after him. “Geralt, don’t leave me. Hello? What are we looking for again?” 

Geralt sighs. “Blessed silence.” The crickets in the nearby thicket chirp, and Geralt cocks his head to listen. There was certainly a scent around here; the dull, fetid stench of something living and the myriad of excretions that accompanied it.

“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. Have you ever hunted a devil before?”

“Devils don’t exist.”

“Right. Obviously. Then, uh… then what are we doing?”

“Sometimes there’re monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both. That’s... the life.” Geralt peers down at some scuffed tracks in the dry dirt, and then runs his hand over the broken twigs of a nearby mulberry bush. Jaskier watches his hunter work, his lower lip between his teeth; the way that Geralt moves - the graceful, wolven prowl - with his bright eyes alert is something to behold. The dryad is reminded daily of just how _beautiful_ his witcher is; how powerful, and wonderful. He can't wait to sample that power for himself once more.

Unaware of Jaskier's musings, Geralt continues to look for tracks, or traces. Whatever their devil _is_ \- “Shit!” Something round and _very_ hard cuts across his forehead and he stumbles.

Jaskier throws his arms out in elation. “Act two begins! What was that?” He tilts his head as Geralt stoops down to pick the projectile from the floor, and touches his forehead in irritation.“Looks like a tiny cannonball from a…” Jaskier spots movement in a nearby thicket. “Oh, my gosh,” he smiles, even more broadly than before, as a set of horns and a familiar, goat-like face appears through the shrubbery. “Geralt, it’s the devil. I have to see this magical - oh wait, Geralt, it’s just a syl- -.” _Thwap._ Something hard clocks Jaskier in the centre of the head and he falls like a sack of potatoes.

Geralt sighs, and follows the trajectory of the second ball, one arm lifting to sweep some bushes aside. He spots movement - subtle, unnatural shifts in the tall bushes - and begins to move forward. Seconds later, the creature charges from the brush with a bellow, “Leave me be!” 

It knocks the witcher flat, swords clattering as his back makes contact with the ground, but he’s soon on his feet again, a feral scowl twisting his face. “You talk.” The creature charges again with a strangled battle cry; he grabs the horns and throws it to the dirt with an effortless twist of his torso.

“Of course I talk!” It squawks as Geralt pins it to the floor with a forearm pressed across its chest.

Because he now has a headache from being smacked in the head by a fucking cannonball, Geralt isn’t feeling particularly charitable. “What happened with you? Your mother fuck a goat?”

It latches into his arm and continues to bray. “I am Torque the Sylvan, a rare and intelligent creature!”

“You’re a dick,” Geralt growls, “with _balls._ ” Because that’s the bit that has pissed him off the most, but he realises how _wrong_ it sounds. Fuck it. Whatever.

“Balls I got from humans, who left our food filled with iron meant to poison me!” It manages to secure a clump of his hair in its grip and yanks it out. “Did your mother fuck a snowman?” Having been nutted with a cannonball, and now viciously de-furred, Geralt loses patience and smacks the sylvan in the face with a clenched fist. It’s a fraction of his strength - petty really - and the smear of blood that drips from the creature’s nose is only marginally satisfying.

“You are intelligent, I’ll give you that,” he bites out, grudgingly. “So I won’t kill you, but you can’t stay here.” He lifts his arm off the sylvan’s chest, and then squints when it leans up towards him.

“Neither can you.” Geralt’s eyes widen a fraction, but he picks up the scent too late. He turns and his world goes black.

***

When Jaskier wakes, he realises they’re in trouble. His glamour’s still in place, so there’s _that_ , at least. He glances around the cave with a furrowed brow, and seconds later feels Geralt begin to shift behind him. “Good, this is the part where we escape.”

The whole confrontation doesn’t go how Jaskier expects. By dryad standards, he’s still very, _very_ young. Barely an adult, even. They banished him long before he learned anything more than how to protect himself in a forest. Everything he knows about the Continent and its history, he’s picked up from _humans_. Perhaps that’s why the conversation that follows is so harrowing. 

His witcher defends him, and Jaskier feels a small pool of warmth to swell in his chest. _He cares._ Jaskier goads them at first, calling them out for beating a bound man and cheers when Geralt lands a headbutt on their assailant, but then she begins to cough. 

_She’s sick,_ says Filavendrel, King of the Elves, as he appears in the cave. _Not a king, not by choice._ He isn’t some majestic warrior in gleaming golden armour; he’s a half-starved man, with unwashed skin and bedraggled hair. Weary, and angry.

Everything Jaskier's been told, everything he's _read_ in human books; all a lie. The elves aren’t living in golden palaces, they’re _dying_ of sickness and starvation in damp, musty caves. Their children are suffering, their young men and women are so embittered they yearn for war. They want to _die_ fighting, rather than wither away to nothing; death isn't optional - it's a certainty - and they wish to choose how to meet it. The fact that his lute is systematically smashed to pieces bothers him initially, but even that loss pales as he listens to Filavandrel destroy his misconceptions with bitter logic.

_Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?_

_Filavandrel of the Silver Towers,_ nay, _Filavandrel of the Edge of the World._

Jaskier learned of a powerful, noble race. This was all true. But they did not surrender their lands willingly to allow a lesser species to grow a foothold. They did not retire to beautiful, golden palaces overflowing with riches and food. _And Geralt understands that._ He tells them to rebuild, to learn to live with the humans. He knows - he gets it - for he is not human either. He's learned to live with them, learned to adapt and _survive._ Their current course can only end in blood and regret; it's better to _show them that you are more than what they fear you to be._ When they spit on the suggestion he tilts his head back with a sigh, and says he’s willing to die. _Just don't call me human_.

Perhaps Filavandrel is impressed by Geralt’s unflinching courage, or maybe the words finally sink in, because instead of using that knife to slice Geralt’s throat, he cuts them free. “I have seen enough bloodshed in my lifetime,” the elf sighs, exhausted. “If what Torque says is true, then you are not deserving of execution. I thank you for your mercy, witcher. He is a valuable ally to my people.”

Geralt stands and brushes the dirt from his trousers, and then pulls the pouch of coins from his pocket. “Take this. I know it’s not a lot, but it might buy some medicine for your sick.” The witcher takes Filavandrel’s hand, turns it and places the one hundred ducats in his palm.

“What - ? We can’t possibly, I - ,” he blinks as Geralt forces his fingers closed over it and then turns towards the cave mouth, “wait, there must be something you can be given in return. Perhaps some Aen Seidhe steel, or - .”

With a thoughtful hum, Geralt turns to watch Jaskier pluck gingerly at the remains of his lute. The bard looks forlorn, his lips turned down in a mournful frown, and his bright blue eyes dimmed. Geralt doesn’t know _why_ , but he can’t _stand_ to see the dryad brought low. “Replace his lute. I know Aen Seidhe are keen musicians.”

Jaskier looks up abruptly, but before he could say anything Filavandrel nods. “He can have mine. I find that the music in my heart is muted these days anyway.”

***

The road ahead lies long and dusty before them, and Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “Credit where credit’s due. The whole reverse-psychology thing you did on them was brilliant, by the way,” the dryad drops his voice low, “ _kill me. I’m ready._ ” The witcher doesn’t respond, he continues to look ahead and Roach ambles along at a sedate pace. “That’s the conclusion. They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly’s coin to the elves.”

Geralt huffs. “Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?”

“Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn’t she?” The instrument is staggeringly beautiful. It’s a hundred times better than his old one, with sleek lines and a sweet tone. “I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.” Jaskier pulls his new lute around the front, shoulders shimmying beneath the strap and begins to pick at the strings. “Will the elf king heed what the witcher entreats? Is history a wheel doomed to repeat? No, that’s - that’s shit.”

Geralt draws Roach to a stop. “This is where we part ways, bard, for good.”

Jaskier sighs. “Geralt, we can’t. I’ve told you - we’re bound, for - for good, well, at least until I die in a couple hundred years, or -,” he trails off, not wanting to think about the alternative. _Or Geralt dies._ “Look, I - I promised to be your barker. Give me an opportunity to change the public’s tune about you. I can be useful. Not just a - a pretty face, or an annoyance.” The bard walks away, strumming his lute, humming thoughtfully.

This song. It has to be _good_. But it can’t paint a target on the elves, it can’t show them as weak and beaten. It needs to be perfectly balanced. There was no shortage of scum looking for an easy meal ticket - Jaskier is young, not naive - but it needs to show Geralt as heroic and brave. No human would cheer if Jaskier sang about how Geralt _didn’t_ kill the elves, how he showed them mercy, and gave them money. _No._ This song - like his others - must be filled with half truths and poetic license. He must protect Filavandrel from opportunistic kings and lordlings looking to strip his remaining assets, and help Geralt at the same time.

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this… song,” he grins, _yes, perfect,_ “from when the White Wolf fought, a silver-tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves did they revel. They came to me, with masterful deceit. Brown down my lute, and they kicked in my teeth, while the devil’s horns, minced our tender meat, and so cried the witcher, ‘He can’t be bleat--’.”

Roach stops and Geralt growls. “That’s not how it happened. Where’s your newfound respect?”

Jaskier pauses and turns, his head tilted to the side. “Respect doesn’t make history.” And then he continues, strolling and playing.

The witcher sits and gazes into space. _Respect doesn’t make history._ He’s right. The truth would make it so much worse. Worse for the elves, worse for Geralt. Honesty, mercy; these aren't recognised currencies in the circles that Geralt walks. He tilts his head back and considers the sky. The dryad isn’t _safe_ with him. He knows that much. A single cannonball to the head knocked him unconscious. Geralt faces _so much worse_ on a daily basis; a griffin claw would tear through Jaskier like a knife through wet tissue paper. 

And yet, even as the dryad walks further down the road ahead, Geralt feels the draw. He wants to be near him, perhaps even -. Geralt discards the notion with an irritable grunt. The bond Jaskier speaks of isn’t an abstract concept. It’s very real. They need to find a way to break it, but until then, Geralt decides that he will humour the bard’s presence. _Within reason._ With the faintest flicker of a smile, Geralt nudges Roach with his heels and heads with Jaskier away from Posada. 

***

Three contracts later, Geralt and Jaskier arrive in Vergen; a unique dwarven town on the borders of Aedirn. The majority of the buildings are carved into the surrounding rocks, and it has only one tavern - _t_ _he Cauldron._ It’s famous and Jaskier bubbles with excitement at the prospect of playing there. “Do you know _why_ , Geralt?” He bounces at Roach’s side. “It’s where Seltkirk of Gulet, the white knight of Aedirn, spent his last day. Oh, Geralt. The _stories_ of -.”

Geralt tunes Jaskier out as he dismounts at the Metallurgists’ gate and leads Roach through. The guards glance at him wearily, but don't intervene. As a non-human town, Geralt earns far fewer glares and mutters than he would in a human settlement, and he allows the tension bunching in his shoulders to ease somewhat. He navigates his way through the squat buildings and finds the Cauldron, with its attached stables. There’s enough money in his pocket to pay for Roach’s feed and a space for him to clean. He _desperately_ needs to bathe in something other than tepid river water, and a sheltered night to brew some new potions. The first he can afford - the innkeep will allow him to wash in the storeroom as long as he’s quick - but the second is out of reach. He'll have to make do with the shelter of the stable, and then sleep outside the city gates.

“- and Vanderift cut Seltkirk off from the rest of his army, Geralt. It was the clash of titans, and - you haven’t been listening, have you?” Jaskier says, frowning. “Fine, _fine._ I can see you’re tired. I have almost enough coin to pay for a room, just give me a few hours to make up the extra. I know enough bawdy, dwarven drinking songs.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Geralt rumbles as he passes across payment to the stablehand. 

Jaskier clenches his teeth, breathes a calming sigh, and swoops in. “Geralt, has it ever occurred to you that you treat your _horse_ better than you treat _yourself_?”

The witcher glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “She works harder than I do.”

“Oh yes, she’s very good at clearing necrophage nests. Bit of effective hoof work. No, she doesn’t _flee_ to hide in the shrubbery at all.” Jaskier throws his hands in the air. “Let me. Earn. My keep. Give me a few hours, _please._ I know you’re out of Swallow, and - .”

Geralt squints, suspicious.

“Don’t give me that look. You talk to your horse. She talks to me, and I overhear your conversations,” Jaskier sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have an ale. Let me work.”

“Fine.” The witcher gives in, mainly because he has realised after a few months of travelling with Jaskier that it’s easier to give in; there’s a fifty percent chance things will turn out as Geralt expects them to anyway. _Badly._ With irritating consequences. So he ducks into the dimly lit interior of the inn, orders himself a beverage and secludes himself away in a quiet corner to… _think._

By this point in their relationship, Jaskier is certain that Geralt recharges via brooding energy, so leaves him to it. He speaks briefly with the innkeep to ensure he isn’t treading on anyone’s toes, and strikes up his first song. It’s a hit. Dwarves are clearly his niche audience. As Jaskier finishes the third song about a mining expedition into a haunted catacomb during which three heroic dwarves free the spirits of their ancestors, the coins are clattering onto the table at an acceptable rate.

He presents his offering to his witcher with a bright grin. “Food. Board. And bath.” 

Geralt gazes down at the pouch of coins. “Hmm.”

“ _Thank you, noble bard, for procuring us a comfortable evening. I am forever grateful for your artistry, your beautiful voice -_ ,” Jaskier imitates Geralt’s tone, as usual, and turns to his wider audience who are smirking at him; he doesn’t realise Geralt has left the seat until he turns back to find an empty table, coin purse gone. “Geralt?” He glances around and catches sight of a broad back disappearing up the stairs. “An early night then.” Jaskier sighs. _Fine._ He'll allow Geralt some time to himself. He plays a few rounds of Gwent with a couple of the dwarves, drinks down an ale, and once an acceptable amount of time has passed, heads upstairs.

He steps across the threshold and immediately notices two things that could prove _interesting._ His witcher is lounging in a hot bath, his limbs splayed out over the edges, with a look of undeniable _bliss_ on his face. _And there’s only one bed._


	7. Stubborn Wolf

Jaskier closes the door softly behind him and places his new lute gently against the wall. The task is far more difficult than it should be; his eyes don’t leave Geralt for a moment, and he almost walks into the rickety wooden chair pulled out from the writing desk. He clears his throat as the silence drags. "Would you mind if I remove my glamour?" Wearing one for extended periods of time causes a sensation like a little itch that you can't scratch; the kind that appears on your nose when your hands are covered in gravy, or half way up your back without a convenient door frame nearby. 

Without opening his eyes, Geralt waves his hand in an errant gesture, and Jaskier removes the silver ring with its forest green gemstone from his index finger. The glamour evaporates like a summer haze, and he begins to undress. 

Now, Geralt isn't a shy man. He spent his youth surrounded by hundreds of others - privacy was always at a premium, if it ever existed at all - and he regularly stumbles through towns in torn clothes, but something about seeing Jaskier's natural form uncovered sets a fire in his belly that wasn't there before. One amber eye flickers open just a touch, and he watches the dryad carefully fold his clothes over the back of the chair. Everything comes off; doublet, breeches, chemise, braies and boots. When he turns and  _ stretches _ Geralt is treated to an eye full of flexing, athletic muscle and a staggeringly good looking prick. The heat gets a little more intense.

_ Discipline.  _ The witcher closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. Unfortunately, that takes in a hit of the dryad's pheromones, which, apparently, his body is very keen on.  _ Fuck. _ He shifts uncomfortably, grabbing the washcloth from the edge of the bath and dumps it over his groin. It's a poor disguise.

Jaskier's ears twitch as he turns his back, and he sniffs tentatively at the air. His dear hunter isn't the only one that can scent hormone changes. He suppresses his smile and casts another glance at the bed. "You know, I was surprised by your treatment of the elves, Geralt."

No answer. Geralt tilts his head back and pretends to be half asleep.

"You see, I was expecting you to cut free and butcher them all, well, initially… and then I actually employed my brain," Jaskier wanders a little closer on silent feet. "A man that talks so gently to his horse, that would spare an intelligent creature rather than simply kill it and then collect the money.  _ Twice.  _ I might add, me being the first. Why on earth aren't there stories of your heroic deeds already far and wide?"

Geralt's eyes open just as Jaskier draws near enough to kneel at the edge of the tub. His forearms settle on the lip and Geralt angles his hips away. His lack of control over his own body is infuriating, and the closer the dryad gets, the more eager he becomes. He looks at those slender fingers as they hover just above the surface of the water and remembers what they felt like brushing down his chest, circling his nipples, gripping his - . "It's bad for business." He grates out, although his voice sounds thick even to his ears.

"Unfortunately yes," Jaskier knows.  _ Of course he knows.  _ Even if Geralt had used bath salts or expensive soaps, Jaskier would have still been able to feel his yearning, but his hunter is unsettled by it. His expressions are subtle - he's a man used to carefully moderating himself - but Jaskier can see it in the tightness of his jaw and the narrow crease down the centre of his brow. He's uncomfortable with wanting something he cannot fathom, moderate or control. "So, why do you do it anyway? There’s no reward in it for you."

"Just because they call me a monster, doesn't mean I have to act like one," Geralt tries to keep his attention elsewhere, because even meeting Jaskier's gaze is hard. Without his glamour, the dryad's eyes are a bright, luminescent blue that Geralt can feel trying to peer into his head. Not judging, or berating, but inquisitive and enthralled.  _ It's worse.  _ So he tries to change the topic of conversation. "You knew what the sylvan was. You said it before you got knocked out."

"Oh yes, I remember seeing one when I was very young. Before they banished me."

Geralt lifts a hand to the edge of the tub. He wants to get out, but standing would put his stiff cock right in Jaskier's eye line. So instead, he continues to talk because - frustratingly - it's the lesser of two evils. "Why did they banish you?" Granted, he  _ was _ curious.

"Male, cursed, Black Sun, the usual," Jaskier sighs. "I was only eleven when they cast me out. Enough knowledge to survive, but told never to return to Brokilon. It's a bit frustrating really, a lot of what I know about the wider world I've had to learn from humans. I spent a bit of time at Oxenfurt university too, but being away from the forests for too long was difficult."

"We haven't been near any forests recently."

Jaskier smiles sheepishly. "Ahh, yes, now that we're mated, I can go wherever you go. We can be apart for a couple of weeks, but we should really get back together quite regularly."

"Right," Geralt growls. "So I was your ticket out of captivity."

"Well, yes and no - Geralt, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Scowl, and then convince yourself of something that makes you feel insignificant."

"Hmm." Body more or less under control, Geralt rises from the bath and steps out, ignoring that his rear end is momentarily inches from Jaskier's mouth. 

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"No."

"Oh good," Jaskier sighs. "I used to. I fell in love a lot. Every day. And then the next day they would be gone. It was a shadow of love, perhaps a reflection of it. But our bond took Geralt, I don't know why, but it did. It must be destiny."

"Destiny helps people believe there's order to this horseshit." Geralt pulls a ragged, greying towel from his pack to wipe the moisture from his skin. "There isn't." He keeps his eyes averted, despite the overwhelming urge to look. Jaskier with his glamour is an objectively attractive man - Geralt isn't blind - but without it, he held an irresistible draw. His eyes glow, his skin a beautiful, forest green, unblemished and Geralt could remember what he tasted like. What he felt like. 

The witcher's mouth goes dry as he drapes the towel over the desk and pulls out a clean pair of braies. Had to be the bond, right? Coupled with a degree of frustration and an unsated libido. No whorehouses between here and the damn forest. He isn’t a martyr. Usually he wouldn’t think twice about accepting the offer of a willing body, but the very fact that  _ this _ was not of his own volition, but the _product of magic_ -

"Can I help with anything?" Jaskier perches on the edge of the bed.  _ Pointedly. _

"No -," the answer is terse, and Geralt closes his eyes briefly in a quiet personal reprimand, and adds, "- thank you." 

"Okay." Jaskier sprawls out on his back, pouting at the ceiling. The bedspread is a mixture of linen and furs; it's clean, which isn't really a surprise. The Cauldron's run by non-humans and they tend to be more sanitary than their human counterparts. Blue eyes follow Geralt's progress around the room; he cleans his old clothes first, hangs them up, and then he does the same with Jaskier's after a moment of hesitation. The dryad blinks. "Thank you - you didn't need - ."

"If you start smelling bad, it'll be uncomfortable." Geralt rumbles without looking up.

If you  _ start _ smelling bad. Does that mean Geralt liked how he - ? No, even Jaskier could admit that was making a mountain out of a molehill. Geralt prowls around the room, trailing the remnants of arousal and keeping his eyes studiously averted from the dryad splayed wantonly on the bed, and Jaskier grows impatient. After seeing Geralt in the bath, smelling the musk of his desire, Jaskier _wants._ Every time Geralt moves across the room, turns to access another bag, Jaskier flexes; an arch of the back, a wriggle of the hips or a leg lifting from the sheets to roll his foot in the air.

To his credit, the witcher is phenomenally disciplined, and Jaskier is forced to formulate a new plan. Unfortunately, it’s rather scuppered when Geralt finishes brewing his potions - grinding dried herbs, adding white gull and heating the flask over the fire - and then pulls his bed roll from his bag. 

Jaskier sits up, "What’re you doing?"

"Going to sleep."

"But there's a bed."

"You paid for it. It's yours."

"Ours."

"No. There is no  _ our. _ "

“You’ll get chewed on by rats. I can hear them. So can you.”

“I’m not food.”

“You could’ve fooled me. You’re damned tasty.”

“Good night, Jaskier.”

Jaskier growls. "Stubborn wolf." He listens as Geralt flops down onto his bed roll and pulls his cloak over his shoulders, then he turns to face the wall and douses the candle nearby with a click of his fingers. The fire will keep them warm for most of the night, burning low as morning approaches. 

This is now a matter of personal pride.  _ No one _ has ever turned Jaskier down when he’s set his mind and attention on them; a sultry smile, a chaste brush of the hand, a more suggestive flutter of the eyelashes and a poetic verse or two. That’s usually all it takes. He’ll plunge into the Abyss before his own gods-damned mate rejects him, especially when said mate knows  _ exactly _ what’s on offer and  _ clearly _ wants it again. Jaskier leaves the bed briefly to paw through one of Roach’s saddlebags. 

Geralt lifts his head and peers over his shoulder, “What’re you doing?”

“Just looking for something I purchased in Eisenlaan. Don’t worry, I’m not about to see what  _ Cat _ does to a dryad,” he murmurs, obscuring the mischievous smile with a tilt of the head. With a little bit of shuffling, he finds the vial of almond oil he purchased for those woeful occasions when there are no responsive trees for him to animate for his bidding, and slips back to the bed. “There we are.”

With a soft sigh, Jaskier stretches out across the blankets again; he wriggles on the soft fur and runs his fingers down his stomach and over his hips. The  _ memories _ of Geralt, wrapped in his vines and  _ begging,  _ are enough to stir Jaskier’s cock to attention and he pops the cork of the vial to pour a liberal amount into his hand. The slick of Jaskier’s palm down his shaft is loud in the muted silence of the room; the majority of the patrons below have long since stumbled home, and the ferreting of the rats in the walls and ceilings only so much of a distraction. 

Sensitive ears pick up the hitch in Geralt’s breath; he’s listening, so Jaskier puts on a show for him. Lifting one hand to his chest to circle one of his nipples, the dryad pinches the hard peak as it forms and lets slip a quiet gasp. His fingers glide, featherlight, over the thick lines that swell up to the head of his cock, his lower lip rolling between his teeth. Geralt is listening intently now; he’s barely breathing and the miasma of lust hangs thick in the room. So Jaskier squeezes his prick a little harder, his muted gasps just a little louder, as he slips his palm from root to tip in a single stroke.

His cock flicks against the grip of his fingers as he dips a hand between his thighs and teases down the seam of his balls, his legs splayed outrageously wide as the heat pools quickly at the base of his spine. The illicit knowledge of Geralt’s full, undivided attention is too much and his pleasure threatens to crest too quickly; Jaskier squeezes harder and stops. 

Orgasm denied, his body aches with a dull thrum as he reaches his plateau again; he circles his fingers across his groin as he waits out the throb, and  _ listens.  _ Geralt is barely breathing. The absence of sound is more poignant than anything else. Jaskier smirks. His denial prolongs Geralt’s torture, and that’s the main focus of the whole exercise. An exercise that is going very well indeed. The salty, bitter fragrance of his own precome drives him quickly to a second peak as his palm works swiftly down his shaft, but he denies himself just once more.

His cock aches. It’s painfully rigid in his fingers, and he tilts his head to observe his witcher. He’s hunched over beneath his cloak, not moving, his shoulders bunched. One arm has shifted though. Jaskier can imagine the length of his cock straining against the soft material of his braies; he can still remember the heavy weight of it in his mouth, the thickness of the head as it pushed inside him.  _ It’s too much.  _ With a quiet, bitten off moan, Jaskier falls over the brink and his seed erupts over his fingers. It pools in the grooves of his abdomen, and he rests the length of his softening cock in it as his heart settles. The ripples of pleasure echo through him like vibrato in a concert hall, and he  _ basks _ in it.

“Are you finished?” Geralt snarls, but his voice is thick and strained.

“Are you?” 

Geralt draws his hand away from his cock slowly, the shift of his arm barely perceptible beneath the shield of his cloak; he hadn’t even realised. His focus had been solely upon the sound and scent of Jaskier; his quiet gasps, the wet slick of his palm and the piquant scent of his precome as it spurted from him after each denial. Geralt felt drunk with need.

_ It’s artificial.  _ A product of magic beyond his understanding, for which he did not give informed consent, and will not yield to. If he gives in, it would be the ultimate disgrace. His awareness of it meant that he would be using the bond as an excuse to be weak -  _ he couldn’t, it would be - _

Geralt sighs heavily and turns his face into his bicep. Jaskier is nothing more than a  _ boy.  _ A boy who made a stupid mistake out of desperation to be free. Geralt is a  _ beast.  _ A beast that knows better than to use magic as an excuse to satiate something as base as his carnal urges. 

The witcher closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

Jaskier cleans himself off and curls up in bed beneath the warm furs. Despite his lack of company, he knows he’s made progress. _Geralt wants._ Jaskier just needs to find a way to convince him that’s okay. 


	8. Betrayer Heart

Jaskier is true to his word. 

Every kikimora, every harpy, every wraith; he immortalises them all in song. He’s Geralt’s barker; his herald; _his bard_. The quality of Geralt’s armour improves as the months go by; it’s no longer a patchwork of worn leather, buckles and haphazard stitching, but robust, polished and hardened. It’ll actually protect him against more than a single well-placed werewolf bite, and fits better across his broad frame; no longer stretching and chafing in all the wrong places. 

Salves, tinctures and oils are never in short supply; his swords are alway well-maintained and as the weather turns, they both purchase new, waterproof cloaks to fend off the cold without agonising over what they will have to do without to afford them. The witcher realises times are good when he no longer has to make the choice between feeding his horse and repairing his equipment. 

Other things are different too.

Villages smell less _offensive_. The odious undercurrent of human excrement still persists, but the sickly sweet perfume of fear is less potent. Sometimes non-existent. It’s no coincidence; in these settlements, they know Jaskier’s songs. The children bark them at Geralt proudly, as if by knowing the words they share in the adventure and the mythos. Each time, the bard just smiles knowingly and proceeds to the tavern to earn their keep.

 _Their_ keep. 

Because Jaskier sees this as a joint venture. No matter how many times Geralt reminds, corrects or otherwise chastises him about it. 

_Our_ supplies, _our_ potions, _our_ contracts. 

The dryad believes he's there to stay and more than once Geralt catches himself believing it too. It's a constant battle to maintain distance, and it only becomes harder still when Geralt realises, after the first year together, that he _enjoys_ it; this comfortable familiarity they have. He finds himself glancing over his shoulder as he senses Jaskier wandering off the path and makes an effort to guide him away from nefarious looking patrons in taverns. He cares what happens to this fragile creature, with his beautiful green skin, his luminescent blue eyes, and -

It scares him. 

Because witchers aren't meant to want things. _And he wants -_

_It’s not real. He keeps reminding himself. Not real. Find a way to break it._

_Soon. One more contract and he’ll find a way. They’ll head towards Ellander and -_

Geralt rewards Jaskier's efforts and loyalty with small tokens of appreciation that completely contradict his insistence that he doesn’t want him around; a bedroll of his very own when the ground grows hard and cold in the winter months, because Geralt can’t stand watching him curl up around his lute like a rejected fawn; space in one of Roach’s saddlebags, because watching him eye up pretty trinkets in towns but pass them up is too difficult to endure, and even occasional conversation when the general smog of exhaustion is light enough because Jaskier is genuinely interested in what he has to say. 

_For his songs. He’s interested for more material._

Small acts within carefully defined limits. Distance can still be nurtured while still showing a modicum of gratitude. After all, Geralt is a man of action and Jaskier is a man of words. Two different languages that cannot communicate. And as long as Geralt doesn’t voice the intrusive thoughts in his head, then all can remain… as it is.

But Geralt realises one day as he’s watching his- _the_ bard sing that he desperately wants one thing again. Amber eyes never leave pink, cupid-bow lips, and he imagines them in their natural state; highlighted in a soft green, the same as the first buds of spring. He watches them caress the words as they leave his tongue, curving and teasing; he remembers what they feel like against his, on his skin, whispering love and adoration in his ear, and Geralt realises.

_He really wants a kiss._

***

The _chasm_ , as Jaskier privately calls it, between himself and the love of his life is fastidiously well-maintained. Geralt refuses to sleep in the same room; if there’s only one available, he opts to sleep in the stable with Roach. When he bathes, he doesn’t lounge in the water anymore, but scrubs himself with swift, brutal efficiency. Like he's concerned that should he relax even for a moment, his mind might and body might grow weak and he'll make that final leap of faith to explore what they have. Or worse, Jaskier might set upon him in his moment of vulnerability. 

_Tempting,_ dear witcher, _tempting._

Whenever Jaskier tries to get close - an arm around the shoulder, a gentle touch to the back, sitting close on a tavern bench - Geralt always retreats, surrendering the space and finding his own once more. Even when the scent of desire - a rich, vibrant bouquet that blooms on quiet nights under the stars - becomes potent, the witcher still flees from Jaskier’s advances. Sometimes he snaps and growls in some vain belief that his feral wolf act will do anything more than attract Jaskier further. It’s Geralt’s wildness, his ferocity, that Jaskier most loves, just as much as the gentle heart that surrendered all of his coin to ailing elves and refused to murder intelligent creatures.

***

“Do you really need to do that _every_ night?”

“Do what, my wolf?”

“You know what.” Geralt growls.

Jaskier stretches his legs out over his bed roll, his hand smoothing the length of his cock beneath his cloak. “Well, you could always help a poor bard out.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grabs his crossbow and heads off into the forest to find his dinner.

“Hmm, he says. _Hmm_. Never has a man’s words - or lack thereof - conflicted so readily with his actions,” Jaskier scowls up at the canopy above. “Perhaps I should - .” He lifts a hand from his side and the forest proves amenable; vines slowly twist their way down from the branches. It would be easy. He snaps his fingers closed and the vines slither away. “No.” 

_He will come to me. Eventually._

***

When their proximity becomes too much, when Jaskier is _certain_ his wolf will finally accept some minor sliver of affection, Geralt disappears into a brothel for a night in the next town they enter. He returns sometimes a whole day or two later - whether he’s actually entertaining some poor woman for all that time, or can even afford to remains to be seen - and doesn’t smell of lust anymore, but sex and _disappointment;_ like his pockets are lighter, but everything else isn’t. 

They spend a year dancing around each other. Jaskier continues to consider the pros of ensnaring Geralt when they pass through a malleable forest; of holding him and kissing him until he begs for more. Because he would beg. Jaskier is certain. He catches those longing looks when his glamour's removed, even if they're only fleeting and carefully guarded. He teases, he goads, he _praises._

_“Such a good witcher, so strong - you’re looking particularly radiant today - is that a new shirt? Yes, I know it’s the same as your usual, but it’s hanging differently.”_

Geralt grunts, and growls, and curls in on himself.

After nearly a year and a half, it becomes too much.

They part ways. Just for a little while. Jaskier needs some space to regather and focus on himself, and Geralt… well, Jaskier isn’t sure, but he doesn’t protest. Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and the dryad can endure a little discomfort if Geralt might realise that he actually enjoys having him around. 

There was always the chance he might enjoy being on his own again, but Jaskier tries not to think on that as he leaves Geralt and Roach in his wake. He isn’t bound to his forest anymore and instead wanders aimlessly north until he reaches Oxenfurt. After nearly two years, his name has become something of a legend in the student dormitories, and it’s nice to be with people who want him around for a change. He will have to return to Geralt eventually and their bond will ensure he walks in the right direction, but for now Jaskier loses himself to revelry and the comforts of civilisation.

***

Geralt expects the separation to be a boon. Finally some peace and quiet. No more incessant babbling or lute music; just the clip-clop of Roach’s hooves upon the dry soil, the bird song and… the echo of his own thoughts. For the first few weeks, he enjoys the novelty of it; back to how it should be. The negative effects Jaskier warned of should they be separated don’t manifest and Geralt assumes that perhaps it is yet another boon of his mutations; he’s immune to this particular branch of ancient magic.

He’s punished for his ignorance slowly. It starts as a niggling feeling beneath his skin; like an itch forming in a place you can’t quite reach no matter how much you contort. Geralt deploys his usual tactic; ignore it, and it’ll go away on its own. But unlike a pesky ideation or minor injury, this intrusive thought begins to take over. He thinks about Jaskier when he picks up a basilisk contract. Jaskier likes basilisks more than drowners or necrophages, because they’re sexy. After getting over his momentary shock, Geralt learned that this meant interesting and unique rather than Jaskier wanting intimate relations with the beast.

_Sexy basilisks. For fuck’s sake._

He thinks of Jaskier while he’s in the bath - a luxury he is beginning to enjoy again now that he doesn’t need to moderate his own bestial appetites - and his hand drops into the water to idly stroke the swelling length of his cock. It’s an absent, uncoordinated movement as he loses himself briefly in his thoughts of warm, forest green skin against him; the mischievous, iridescent glow of those blue eyes, like twin aquamarines framed by soft, tousled hair falling down over them. Geralt thinks of his voice; melodic, with a commanding note hiding beneath the soft veneer; the way it coos and gentles him. 

His hand moves a little faster, prick now hard enough to rise above the water; he comes back to his senses enough to realise what he’s doing, but he’s too far gone to stop now. There’s no risk. Just a deep, burning shame to endure when he’s done. _He didn’t care._ Because now, he can close his eyes and remember the sensation of being cradled by the vines in the glade where he’d first stumbled across the dryad; overpowered, restrained, spread open. The bulbous head of his cock thrusts through the grip of his fist, foreskin slipping back.

_He’d begged for it. Wanted it._

The vines were an extension of Jaskier’s touch, of his control; they consumed every part of him and Geralt hadn’t been able to escape, forced to take everything they gave. His hand moves faster, grips harder, thumb pressing over his leaking slit. He thinks of the way Jaskier teased him open with soft words and softer touches; he remembers the feeling of being so full - gloriously full - and then of tasting Jaskier’s -

Geralt spills over his hand with a low, shuddering moan. His head falls back against the edge of the tub and for a moment he can feel the brush of Jaskier’s lips against his. Because the fucking dryad had kissed him. Like he wanted it. Not out of obligation, not because Geralt had paid for it - because he actually had paid for a kiss before - but because he had wanted to taste his lips, his tongue. And it had been _so good_. 

With an irate snarl, Geralt drops his softening cock into the water again and rinses his palm. _Fuck this bullshit._

***

Three weeks later it’s worse. His hand isn’t even taking the edge off anymore. The need for physical intimacy is overpowering; not just the sexual kind either, but for a fucking embrace, and for that damn kiss. Anything. He takes contracts until his supplies are spent and his limbs are leaden with exhaustion, then he takes a few more, but not even being blasted through several tree trunks by a rotfiend explosion rattles the itch free. It’s not really an itch anymore; more a biting, relentless gnaw at every nerve-ending.

Geralt finds himself a brothel, a willing woman and he blows all of his coin on three days with her in a local inn. It does precisely nothing to alleviate the ache. As the third day draws to an end and he leans across to take a drink from the jug of water at the bedside, and listens as she - Danica, he learned on the second day - recounts the tales attached to each of his scars. Using Jaskier’s words. He swallows the knot in his throat and lets her explore her fill. After all, she’s tolerated him for three days, the least he can do is let her fantasize.

“This I definitely know,” she murmurs, and then breaks into a melodic lilt, “the vampire bled, as white as a sheet, and yet head dead heart did beat, did beat - ,” she stops singing and moves lower, “- the kikimora?” Geralt nods and watches as she places a kiss upon it. “Hmm. I don’t recall the bard singing of this one. Who would dare try and rob you of your treasure? A woman?”

“Princess.” Geralt grumbles as Renfri’s image rises in his mind’s eye as clearly as if it were yesterday. It didn’t take long for his mind to saturate her beautiful, strong face in blood; accusing brown eyes stabbing through to his very soul.

“Were you in love? What’s her name?” Danica tilts her head.

“When you live as long as I do, all the names start to sound the same.” Geralt offers, because even saying her _name_ is too difficult. The guilt - his failure - rots through him to this very day.

Danica huffs and flops back against her pillows. “Were destiny a kinder bitch, a whore like me wouldn’t have to settle for her client’s telltales. A friend of yours came through here last month headed for Temeria.”

“A friend?”

“Another witcher. I blessed that prick with my fullest efforts too, and he - .” She seems irate, but Geralt cuts in.

“What’s in Temeria?”

“Do you not just hear me talking?”

Because he’s feeling uncharitable, and unsated even after three days in her skilled company, he bites back against her sass. “Shouldn’t you know when someone’s pretending?”

She looks affronted, but before she can cut him down a notch, the innkeeper hammers on the door demanding payment. “It’s been three nights. Pay up or get out!”

Geralt looks to Danica with a quiet sigh. “Temeria?”

“It’s got a pest problem. A few miners rounded up three thousand orens to have it killed. Your boy took the coin and ran.”

The innkeeper continues thumping and bellowing. “You hear me?”

Pest problem. Not a lot to go on, but if it was a big enough pest to warrant such a huge pay out, then it was worth a look. There was also the little issue of that rumour. A witcher fleeing from an incomplete contract with the payment; that couldn’t be allowed to spread any further. Geralt leans down to his bags and pulls out a bag of coins, “Thank you… for… everything.”

Having passed all of his coin across to Danica, Geralt ends up having to leave Roach in the innkeeper’s custody, with a warning that she is to be here when he returns with the coin. When Geralt finally arrives in Temeria, he passes a sign that reads, ‘Temeria: Realm of monsters and cowardly kings’ _._

***

Jaskier doesn’t know what motivates him to leave Oxenfurt and head south. The burning ache of being so far from Geralt had definitely reached a crescendo, but he had unfinished business with a few colleagues in Oxenfurt, namely one Valdo Marx, who had snarked and spat on his success. _Well, fuck him._

But something draws Jaskier back to the rode. He knows it has something to do with Geralt. He feels the draw of it deep in his heart, but he can’t explain why. The need to be close to his witcher is accented by worry; something’s not right. 

He finds Roach first. The barn is in a sorry state, with rotten hay scattered across its filthy floor, and a roof in dire need of repair. Understandably, the chestnut mare is irritated. _The bastard left me here. It smells, dryad. It smells really bad here. I’m going to bite him._

“Oh, dear heart,” he strokes her mane and her velvety nose, accepting the good-natured headbutt to the centre of his chest. “Why on earth has he left you, hm?”

_Feed me. Not enough food. It smells. I will bite him for this._

“Now, we both know you won’t bite him,” he whispers gently. “He must’ve had a good reason. Let me go and find out.”

Jaskier discovers that Geralt owes money. That he spent all of his coin on three days with a prostitute. The reminder of Jaskier’s place in Geralt’s life cuts through him like the cold steel of the blade on his witcher’s back, but he offers his services regardless. For an evening of song, Jaskier secures Roach’s freedom and the next morning they ride into Temeria together.

_Thank you, dryad._

“You’re most welcome, my dear. Let’s go and find your master.”

_Yes. He is due a biting._

***

When he sees Geralt for the first time, he’s pale and drenched in sweat. Jaskier interrogates the sorceress - Triss, he learns - until he’s blue in the face.

_A striga. A royal striga._

She learns of his name and immediately warns that none of what she has told him can make it into a ballad. “Ha! If Geralt dies, my dear. Every peasant from here to Poviss will hear of your king’s appetites.”

“He won’t die, dryad.” She murmurs, gently.

This throws Jaskier for six and he looks at her with wide eyes.

“Your secret’s safe with me, now -,” she indicates the room where Geralt sleeps, “- you should go and be with him. He’s said two names on repeat for the last two days. Renfri, and Jaskier.”

 _Renfri._ Well, Jaskier hasn’t heard that name before but, more importantly, Geralt has said _his_. At his weakest, at his most vulnerable, his witcher had called for him. So he dismisses the sorceress with a flutter of his hand and sits by Geralt’s bedside. He mops the sweat from his witcher’s brow and tries to ignore the blood saturating the sheets beneath his back.

“How close was this, my love? How close did I come to losing you and not even know it?” He strokes the backs of his fingers down Geralt’s cheek, his skin rasping over the coarse bristles of his unshaven jaw. Geralt tilts towards into the touch and his nostrils flare; he doesn’t wake, but his chest seems to deflate with a very soft, “murr.” He eases; Jaskier pets him until the tense lines in his forehead dissipate and his body relaxes. “Good, my love. You’re all fine. Just rest.”

***

Geralt’s eyes open slowly. The late afternoon sun floods in through the tall windows and blurs his vision with bright, piercing light. Too much. He relies on his ears and his nose to ground him in his surroundings. 

The smell of forests and spring rains, chamomile and honey, ease through his mind like a soft caress and he snuffles at the air for more. He can hear a voice, lyrical and mischievous; a voice that reminds him of supple, cupid-bow lips, open affection and kind words. One hand snatches in the blur of orange and white and finds a sculpted jawline, an elegant neck; he grips a little tighter and pulls the voice closer to him. It stutters in surprise, but Geralt wants to taste the words - taste the - 

Shivering from the effort of movement, his chest and throat aching, his mouth an acrid taste of decoctions and bitter sleep, Geralt places his chapped lips to the source of his comfort and sighs in relief when it kisses him back.


	9. Sweet Melitele

Geralt sleeps until the sun sets and Jaskier holds him. Not just his hand. The dryad bodily climbs onto the pallet, smeared with blood and soaked in Geralt’s sweat, and cradles the witcher’s torso in his lap. He strokes his silvery hair and runs his thumb along the lines of his face. Geralt’s breathing is level, his brow smooth.

“He looks more peaceful now than he has in days,” Triss murmurs as she sorts through a stack of alchemy ingredients. “The mark on his chest—.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, his eyes never leaving Geralt. “It was me.”

“I’m surprised,” Triss turns to face them, her head tilted to the side. “Witcher’s don’t _do_ that kind of thing. They’re lone wolves, in every sense of the word.”

“It’s… complicated.” Jaskier murmurs, avoiding the complexity of the question itself. _Complicated._ It felt too light a word to describe the relationship between himself and Geralt. He could only hope that the kiss had cemented _something,_ or perhaps destroyed a hurdle.

Unfortunately, he clearly underestimated Geralt’s capacity for self-loathing and denial. The witcher woke with a headache and an attitude. Only the confirmation of Roach’s presence seemed to go any way in alleviating his bad mood.

“I must warn you though,” Jaskier says as they walk out of the keep towards the stables. “She’s feeling rather sensitive about the whole ‘abandoning at a tavern’ thing.”

Geralt squints at Jaskier and then sighs without answer. His throat still hurts; the sorceress prevented him from removing the bandage because he hadn’t yet fully healed. There was also an added problem. Having Jaskier near after all this time was making him feel… _needy._ It was the only word that fully encompassed the well of pressure in his gut and chest; the desire to be touched, kissed, held. It gnawed on him like a persistent nekker on a corpse.

 _Nice analogy, Geralt._ Now he's privately chiding himself for reflecting poorly on… _this._ Fucking fantastic.

“Where are we heading?” Jaskier asks as Geralt loads his saddlebags onto Roach’s back. She hadn’t bitten him yet, but several times she leans in close and he moves his arm out of the way just in case.

“North.”

“I see,” Jaskier pauses, elbow propped on the stall. “Are we going to discuss… _things_?”

“What’s there to discuss?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Jaskier, thank you for rescuing my horse and coming to tend to my wounds. It’s so very lovely to see you, and—.”

“Thank you for tending to my wounds,” Geralt grunts, and then leads Roach out into the daylight. They have a few hours before the sun starts to set, and Geralt’s determined to put as many miles between him and this god forsaken hellhole as possible. “Why did you come back?”

It’s really hard not to feel hurt. Jaskier tries, really he does. But his face falls and he spends a moment fiddling with his lute strap, his hands, twisting the ring on his finger that keeps his glamour in place. “Well, I, umm—,” he starts, and then uses the excuse to follow Geralt out onto the path to take pause. “I missed you, Geralt. I thought that perhaps you might’ve missed me.”

For a while, there’s no answer. The witcher sits atop his mare and gazes down the path with an unreadable expression. There’s conflict there. He’s not sure what to say, or he _is_ and it’s scrambled incoherently in his mind. “What I feel—.” 

Jaskier leans forward, one hand settling on Roach’s neck. After over two years, the whole ‘don’t touch Roach’ rule has been relaxed. It’s hard to keep two beings apart when they regularly communicate.

“What I feel isn’t real, Jaskier,” Geralt finishes, finally, and is too much of a coward—in his mind—to look down at the crestfallen dryad next to him. “It’s a product of whatever magic that brought us together in the forest. We need to head to Ellander and see the priestesses at the temple there. They’ll know how to free you from your bond.”

“Free _me_?” Jaskier blusters. “Geralt, I assure you. I feel far from imprisoned with you.”

“Then you’re either an idiot or—,” he trails off, and spurs Roach into a sedate walk down the dusty path. “It’s—I’m glad you’re safe.”

 _It’s good to see you again._ Jaskier translates in his mind because he can _hear_ it in Geralt’s voice. “Are we going to discuss the kiss?”

No answer. _Pointedly_ , no answer. _Dear Melitele…_

***

After several hours of riding they stop just inside the first of two forests they need to traverse in order to reach northern Temeria and the temple that Geralt seeks. Jaskier helps build a fire, ushering Geralt away to sit on his bedroll, and then he disappears into the surrounding woodland to find his witcher a meal. Geralt protests, of course—he’s been travelling on his own for months and has got used to being self-sufficient again—but Jaskier casts him a baleful eye and stomps off.

In the end, he manages to convince a trout to the surface of a nearby river, and returns to Geralt with a fishy supper accompanied by foraged fruit and berries. They eat in silence, the noises of chewing and heavy sighs punctuated only by the hoot of a nearby owl awakening in the twilight. Once Geralt finishes, he disappears briefly to relieve himself, wash away some of the road dirt and sweat in the nearby stream, and returns to slump next to the fire.

Jaskier waits patiently, vainly hopeful that his witcher might _look_ at him at some point today, but in the end breaks the silence himself. “How’ve the last few months been?”

“Peaceful.” Geralt murmurs, pointedly, but Jaskier can sense the lie. They’ve been far from peaceful, in fact, they’ve been downright difficult. He knows, because he’s dealt with the same feelings of emptiness and _weakness,_ and no amount of pleasant company—paid for or otherwise—helped fill the void.

“The kiss,” Jaskier decides to go straight in for the kill. “Did it make you feel better? There’s no need to lie, Geralt. Only us and the trees can hear it.”

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Geralt lies to himself on the regular. The witcher shifts uncomfortably, and then tilts his head back to consider the darkening sky. If he views it purely as an academic exercise—the impact of magic upon his person—then it was easier to deal with. There was nothing _there_ that was of his own making. Nothing that he has to deal with, consider or… or feel. “It provided relief. I was able to sleep better afterwards. Fewer… nightmares.”

“The sorceress said you were repeating two names,” Jaskier shifts just a little closer. Rather than renewing the distance, Geralt just gazes at him passively. “Me, and Renfri. Who’s Renfri?”

“A princess,” he says, simply. “From a long time ago.”

“It didn’t end well, did it?”

“No.” Part of Geralt’s determination with the striga stemmed from his desire to _get it right_ this time. A young woman, abandoned by the rest of her kin, left to suffer on her own; Geralt was her opportunity for salvation. He couldn’t fail. Not again.

“And because you failed _her,_ ” Jaskier muses quietly, “you were willing to throw yourself away for the young princess of Temeria.”

The witcher shifts uncomfortably. “It was just a contract. A well paid one. My horse was being held ransom.”

“Yes, the innkeep did mention you’d spent several days with a young woman,” he smirks. “Scratch the itch, did it?”

Geralt scowls now, because Jaskier _knows_ it didn’t. In fact, having the dryad shift ever closer was making said _itch_ a little more potent with each shuffling inch. “No.”

“Hmm, that must’ve been disappointing,” Jaskier sits finally at Geralt’s side, leaning back against the packs. “Geralt, I—you do realise that denying yourself is only going to make you feel worse.”

“Denying myself what?”

The dryad throws his head back in despair, hands clasping to his face momentarily. When he returns to the conversation—sits up, legs crossed—he looks the witcher dead in the eye. “Kiss me.”

“What?” Geralt swallows thickly and looks about ready to scarper to the other side of the fire.

“Kiss me. Right now. Right here.” Jaskier points to his lips as if _destination_ was Geralt’s issue. “And then I want you to tell me right afterwards how you’re feeling. No need for… flowery adjectives. Just. Whatever comes into your head.”

“Jaskier—,” Geralt starts, but he’s being watched _intently._ “You don’t have to, you’re not required to—.”

“Don’t have to, not required to,” he sighs. “Perhaps I _want_ to. I didn’t push you away at the keep, Geralt. Come here. Please.” Jaskier was _very_ close to requesting the assistance of the forest; the trees were listening in. Their latent magic buzzed across his skin and the temptation to manipulate the natural energy around him and pin Geralt to the gods-damned ground was… strong. But no, he wants his witcher to come to him of his own accord. “Don’t you want to?”

“It’s not r—.”

“No, not the question I asked,” Jaskier reaches across slowly and takes one of the sword-rough hands perched on the side of Geralt’s knee; he holds those strong fingers tenderly. The witcher doesn’t pull away. “Do you _want_ to?”

The silence stretches. There’s that owl again, accompanied by chirping crickets and the general hum of nocturnal activity. “Yes.” Geralt whispers finally, his shoulders falling as if it’s a defeat; as if he’s admitting a filthy, shameful secret that will see him run from every village between here and Poviss.

“Okay,” Jaskier rises to his knees, sweeps a hand beneath that handsome, angular jaw and tilts Geralt’s head back. When their lips meet, he feels the tension ebb out of Geralt’s body like a receding tide. His tongue’s responsive when Jaskier dips his own inside, gliding gently over the top and enticing it out to play. The moment of victory comes when Geralt reaches out tentatively and rests a palm at Jaskier’s waist; his fingers knead only lightly, a brief lapse of control betraying his real desire to hold tightly. When Jaskier finally draws away, Geralt’s face and neck are flushed, his beautiful eyes of golden ichor are wide and warm. “Feelings?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm isn’t a feeling,” Jaskier doesn’t release Geralt’s chin, even when the witcher tries to pull out of their shared space. “Try again.”

“Fine,” Geralt starts, sees the arched eyebrow and realises he needs to do better. “Good.” Another pause. “Relief… like a hot bath.”

“Alright,” Jaskier smiles, sliding his hand gently through Geralt’s hair. He doesn’t get very far; it’s matted and uncared for. “Would you like another?”

Geralt swallows again; his mouth’s practically watering at the memory of what Jaskier tastes like. Sweet, and warm, like drowning in honey and cinnamon porridge on the first morning at Kaer Morhen. Relief, safety and—, “yes, please. But—,” Geralt licks his lips, unsure whether he’s pushing a boundary, “can you take your glamour off?”

They were far enough away from civilisation for Jaskier to be safe, and even _then_ , even the most dedicated hater of non-humans would be staggeringly stupid to attack him with a witcher sitting nearby. Jaskier twists the ring from his finger and his human visage fades; the colour of his skin melts into its soft, forest green, his blue eyes brighten to their natural, luminous shade, and—Jaskier looks up to Geralt and watches the witcher’s face transform. His pupils blow wide, the flush on his neck reaches the tips of his ears, lips part. _How hadn’t he realised this before?_ Two years they had travelled together. _Two years._ “Geralt?”

“Mm?” The witcher looks up to his face quickly, because he’d been studying the sculpted lines of Jaskier’s chest.

“Do you prefer this form?” Because Jaskier had just _assumed_ the witcher would prefer the human one; everyone else did. Not a single person had done anything but balk in disgust. What irony. Jaskier had spent two years telling Geralt how beautiful he was—amber eyes, beautiful mane of white hair, strong, muscular body—and continued to internalise people’s attitudes towards his own natural shape.

“It’s not—however you’re comfortable—,” Geralt murmurs, his gaze dropping away to the hands in his lap. “Don’t change because of me.”

The dryad preens, his shoulders squaring, his chin lifting, and he takes Geralt gently by the face again. “Lay down.”

“Jaskier—.”

“Please? Just a kiss. I promise. You’re tired, wounded. Anything else would be unfair.”

“Hmm.” Geralt lies down with Jaskier leaning over him; he ignores the swell of arousal straining at the ties of his trousers and focuses instead on the press of Jaskier’s hand in the centre of his chest, the weight of him as he leans over, and the soft brush of lips that make him feel light. The first kiss in the tower room had been like the first sip of water after enduring weeks of thirst in the desert, but now he felt like he was drinking greedily from an oasis. Jaskier guided his hands back to his body; the glamour didn’t provide his clothes, so Geralt has to slide a hand beneath his doublet to touch his skin. A soft moan escapes before he can snatch hold of it, but Jaskier just continues to kiss him tenderly. 

Geralt remembers what it was like the first time. Bound up in the vines, his limbs held fast, his most vulnerable areas posed, and Jaskier had kissed him as if he were a fragile, precious creature. He could’ve been as brutal as he wanted to be—made Geralt scream and beg—but he’d chosen tenderness. Chosen to treat the grotesque beast ensnared in his trap, at his mercy, with all the care of a lover.

“Geralt?”

The witcher opens his eyes in confusion—when had he closed them? When had he started pawing desperately at Jaskier’s doublet? When had he started _panting_ like a bitch in heat? His shoulders bunch, suddenly self-conscious, and he pushes the dryad away. His lack of control worries him. His _desperation_ worries him more. “Th—thanks,” he stutters—fuck, can’t even control his speech. “Good night, Jaskier.”

And just like that, he’s dismissed. Jaskier sits back and draws his knees to his chest. Instead of withdrawing, wounded and bereft, he takes a moment to backtrack. The turning point—what was the turning—? Ahh, yes. The moment Geralt lost himself. The moment his eyes slid closed and his kisses became desperately needy. He feared losing himself. Losing his control and letting himself—what? Enjoy? Be? Did he worry he’d somehow devolve into a feral beast?

Rather than push it any further, Jaskier returns his glamour—there was always a chance that roving bandits would stumble across them—and pulls his bedroll over to Geralt. “I’m going to sleep next to you.”

“Mmhm.” Geralt murmurs, but with his back turned now, his eyes closed. They slept peacefully that night, despite Jaskier’s overwhelming urge to pull his wolf close.

***

Three days later, they arrived in Ellander. The ride’s been difficult for Geralt. The wound isn’t healing well; the stitches are coming undone, the dressing leaking. There’s little Jaskier can do but help his witcher find water and food; the priestesses will do the rest.

Geralt turns Roach’s nose down a poplar-lined path ending in a tall, iron gate. The Temple of Melitele sits outside the city walls and is an impressive, sprawling estate in its own right. One of the sisters spots and recognises Geralt immediately, and he dismounts before following her towards the temple built into the side of the mountain. They pass outbuildings and gardens; Jaskier marvels at the grotto hewn out of rock, with its glittering roof of crystal. A greenhouse for growing herbs.

One of the priestesses takes over from the initiate, takes one look at the witcher, and leads him to the infirmary. Once Roach is comfortable in the temple’s stable, Geralt seeks out the bed prepared for him and sits on the edge. He doesn’t intend to be here long. Just long enough for Nenneke to check on the wound and investigate… his other issue.

The head priestess is a busy woman, as are her staff, so Jaskier’s curiosity, flirting and general tomfoolery doesn’t go down well. When Nenneke eventually arrives, she blusters in irritation. “Will you _please_ control your bard? He keeps fluttering those blue eyes at my girls and generally being an irritant.”

“Hmm. He’s about as likely to listen to me as you.” Geralt tilts his head back as Nenneke removes the bandages from around his throat; she’s clinical and efficient, but he feels minimal pain as she tilts his chin left and right. With her inspection complete, she disappears briefly to collect some ointments and herbs, and then sits next to him on the bed to repair the stitches, apply some salve and replace the dressing.

“You’ll be staying here for a few days until I see some improvement in this. It hasn’t healed nearly as well as it should,” she lifts one of her wizened hands and places it against his forehead. “There’s something else. You’re paler than usual, your pulse is hammering away, your eyes aren’t reacting properly to light. Have you been bitten by something other than a striga?”

“In a way.” Now that it’s time to tell her—to ask for help—the words are lodged in Geralt’s throat.

“Now, child,” she leans forward, seeking his gaze. “I’ve known you since you were a lad. _Tell me._ ”

Geralt looks into her familiar, kindly face, framed with long fading hair, embedded with warm, understanding eyes and he opens his mouth. He tells her everything—well, _almost_ everything. The vines and the desire to be held down goes unsaid, but _everything else_ . The… mating itself, the bond, the feelings of weakness— _sickness_ —when Jaskier’s too far away. How, even when he’s near, Geralt still feels like he’s dragging a weight behind him.

“The bard’s a dryad,” she says finally, her expression thoughtful. “Well, that explains why some of the plants have gone wild since your arrival. We can barely keep up with the fruits they’re providing.”

“Sorry, he’s just trying to be helpful,” Geralt pauses. “I think.”

“I’ve come across this type of bonding before,” Nenneke smooths her skirts and folds her hands in her lap. “Many moons ago. The only way to break the bond is with the death of one of the partners.” She watches Geralt’s face fall; not because he realises he must kill Jaskier, but because he _knows_ he never will. It’s not in his nature; as quietly gentle and kind as it is. “The weakness you feel, the _yearning_ ,” he hasn’t expressly said it, but she knows, “can only be sated if you acknowledge and accept your union. In all ways.”

“He’s just a—,” Geralt rubs his hands over his face. “Nenneke, I’m a witcher, he’s—.”

“Ahh yes,” she sighs, impatiently. “I’m a witcher. Oh woe, he’s tied to me. What a cruel dash of fate for the boy. How can I possibly be enough? I’ll hurt him; he’s in danger just by breathing the same air as me,” She imitates his voice and he squints at her in irritation. She just smiles. “Am I getting close, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me, boy,” she cuffs him on the shoulder and then stands. “Sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll have your privacy. I’ll send your mate to you.”

“ _Nenneke,_ ” Geralt growls, but is instantly cowed by her glare. 

“I’ll even send him with food and drink. He ought to know the way to your heart is through your stomach. You also need a bath. You smell. I’ll have the girls arrange one.”

The witcher drops his face to his hands. Not only was there no solution to his problem—no solution that he’s entirely comfortable with—but now they’re all _ganging up_ on him.


	10. Service

The dreams are easier now. The bleak, blood-soaked streets of Blaviken fade into the back of his mind, replaced by images of forest green skin framed in warm summer sunlight, of honey sweet lips and soft sighs of pleasure. In his head, he can enjoy them. The object of his fascination is safe because the imaginary hands of a witcher can’t hurt and savage like those of a real one. So as he sleeps, Geralt allows his mind to fly freely with its desires; he’s wrapped in vines as Jaskier purrs in his ear, words dripping with affection and promise.

His body stretches, resists and is held fast. His strength can’t hurt anyone like this. He can lose himself and not worry that he’ll scratch, or bite, or _break_ , the beautiful form sliding over him. Every time he wakes at first light, his body’s taut, cock hard, as the images fade into the grey of early morning wakefulness.

And then the _real thing_ bounds in just at the wrong moment. “Geralt! You’re awake!” Jaskier beams, his smile all brilliant white teeth and beautiful, crinkled blue eyes. Geralt’s heart skips a beat and he gathers the blankets over his lap to hide the vestiges of his night time fantasies. Foolish really; Jaskier can smell the spikes and changes in his hormones as readily as the witcher can in others.

The dryad, still shrouded in his glamour despite offers from Nenneke that he can remove it in the sanctity of the temple, places a basket brimming with fruit on the bed next to Geralt’s leg. Only a small fraction of the crop that he’d spurred the trees into producing. The priestesses were struggling to keep up. When his witcher just stares at his offering, Jaskier plucks a round, red apple from the top and turns Geralt’s hand over to place it gently in his palm. “Nenneke sprayed me with a water bottle and tsked at me like a stray.” 

There it is. The ghost of that beautiful smile. It curls at the corners of Geralt’s lips very subtly; a quiet warmth creeping in at the corners of his golden eyes. “Perhaps you should stop fluttering your eyes at her girls.”

“The cheek,” Jaskier folds his arms, one eyebrow quirked. “I do no such thing. I’m merely polite when they come over and talk to me, and they’re very grateful for all my helping with gardening.” He examines his nails, long fingers flexing, and Geralt can’t help but stare at them. His mind—the unhelpful bastard—provides images of his dreams from the night before; the gentle caresses circling across his skin. He shivers. Jaskier tilts his head, “Are you alright?”

“Fine, just… not used to having this much sleep halfway through the year,” Geralt murmurs, and takes a bite of the apple. It’s _good;_ the flesh firm, crisp and tart. Just the way he likes them. “You don’t have to stay here. You could head into Ellander for company.”

“It always comes back to ‘you don’t have to’, doesn’t it?” Jaskier sighs. “No, I don’t have to. I didn’t have to bond with you, I didn’t have to follow you over every inch of this godforsaken rock. Didn’t have to be your barker. But I wanted to do all of it. For better or for worse.” he reaches to Geralt's neck, fingers stroking across the soft fibres of the bandages. "Does it feel better?"

"Yes." Geralt takes another bite of the apple, throat flexing easily when he swallows. "Should be ready to leave tomorrow."

"Mm. We'll see. Nenneke seems to have a lot of time for you."

"More than most."

"Did you talk to her about us?" Jaskier worries at the hem of his doublet as he speaks; he wants to crawl beneath the blankets and press his nose into Geralt's hair. Wants to hold him as he sleeps, savour the quiet little noises of pleasure he makes in his dreams and then tease them out of him when he wakes.

"Yes."

"And?" Jaskier lifts his gaze now, because he can hear a note of trepidation in Geralt's usually level tone. 

Geralt could lie, he could misdirect, he could—but he can't. Not when Jaskier looks anxious; his clever, expressive hands muted, his eyes wide. "She says that it's not something she knows how to break. That we should… explore it."

"I see," Jaskier tries to keep the excitement pressed deep and out of sight, but it bubbles over in a slight tremor of his hands. But Geralt looks troubled, and so Jaskier shifts a little closer and takes the hand resting on top of the bed. "I wish I could honestly say I'm sorry for what I did, but… you're the best thing I've ever—… let me help you like I promised. In all ways."

Geralt couldn't pinpoint when his discomfort shifted. When had he stopped being angry at his lack of choice and agency? When had his focus shifted back to more comfortable ground of believing he was the perpetrator? The villain? Both perspectives were still there, warring inside his head for space, but it's the scope of his desires that scare him the most. Even if they're partially false—a product of magic and forced chemistry—they're fierce, and _bestial_ ; not something he’s ever felt before.

Relationships for Geralt took three forms. The stilted, brief relationships he had with contractors when negotiating payment; the warmer, more genuine kind he had with his brothers and the sexual ones he had with prostitutes. All were carefully controlled—on his own terms—including the act of sex itself. It was addressing an urge as natural as eating, and he treated it with the same clinical efficiency. His partners enjoyed themselves, he… achieved his goal. It kept everyone safe.

 _It could be that way with Jaskier too,_ with some focus and self-discipline. Just needed to keep the monster trapped in its cage where it belonged. 

“Fine,” he says, eventually. “Tonight?”

Jaskier blinks, and then raises an eyebrow, arms folding. “Oh, found a space in your diary to fit me in?”

Geralt looks perplexed, and then sighs heavily in frustration, lips pressed tightly together as he gathers the words to explain himself. “I need to meditate, Nenneke will have taken the bandages off, I just assumed you would prefer—.”

“It’s not about what I prefer,” Jaskier rests his palm over Geralt’s hand once more, fingertips wandering through the softer plains between the calluses. “We’ll talk about it tonight some more. You look tired still. Get some more rest.” He moves the bowl of fruit from the bed to the table at its side, and then departs to leave his witcher in peace.

***

The ward itself is quiet and airy. In the rows and rows of beds, there’s only Geralt and one other woman—pregnant, by the looks of it—so it’s easy for Geralt to slip into meditation. He kneels up on the bed out of habit rather than necessity; his palms flat on his thighs and his head tilted down to his chest. The vague memory of Eskel always floats to the front of his mind at the beginning, with his head tilted back into the sun and his hands open as if to catch the warmth. Geralt’s brother, and yet his opposite in so many ways.

Distant voices of working priestesses fade; the world becomes fainter with each careful breath. In—one, two, three, four, five—out—one, two, three, four, five. Here he can banish the dreams; lock them away and bask in the empty cold of the void. He focuses on his breathing, and then even that slips away to join the rest of the world in the grey, amorphous mass outside his consciousness. Hours slip by without notice. Just floating in blissful space. He’s able to consider his problem from a detached perspective; he can give Jaskier what he needs without letting this creature loose. _Unknown, unchecked._

 _The sound of footsteps. The pant of an elderly woman on the cusp of losing her health._ His eyes flicker open, pupils blown wide, as the world comes crashing down on him again. It’s dark. The sun set hours ago, because it’s already growing cold; the priestesses have lit the fires and the torches blaze nearby. Nenneke stops at his bedside, “Well, you’re looking better than when you arrived.”

He hums and sits on the edge of the bed obediently as she beckons him forward. The dressings have been changed twice since his arrival, and the bandages she removes now are almost perfectly clean. She touches his skin gently with cool fingers, probing the outside of the pink scar, before nodding in approval. “You’ve healed well.”

“I’ve been cared for by the best,” Geralt offers her the smallest smile, and then begins to stand, eyes flickering to and fro in search of his things. Her hand alights on his chest.

“Not so fast, witcher,” she raises a brow. “You’re still not there. You have one more task to perform before I’ll be happy to send you out unto the world.” When he looks at her in confusion, she flicks her hand in the vague direction of the courtyard. “Your dryad’s in one of the gardens. It’s perfectly enclosed, no windows or balconies overlooking. You should go to him now.”

It’s _tonight._ Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but she’s already walking away to tend to her second patient. After such an extended meditation, Geralt feels calmer. Not _free falling_ as he had been in the last few weeks. So, with reinforced resolve, he leaves the infirmary and heads to the gardens. Following his nose, he finds Jaskier in the very centre of a largely overgrown thicket. 

_No glamour._

It’s the first thing that throws Geralt’s calm off kilter. He can’t help it. That muscled chest is completely exposed, its dense smattering of hair on full display, pink nipples and rippled abdomen. With Jaskier’s glamour in place, it would’ve been easier. Geralt disregards the response as base and crushes it down as he approaches; Jaskier’s strumming gently on his lute, his back to an aged fruit tree, with huge sprawling roots and a stout trunk. As Geralt approaches, he looks up. “Ahh, you’re awake.”

“Yes,” Geralt lingers several feet away, examining the stone fountain in the middle of the small clearing. The grass is thick and verdant, plush underfoot. “You’re…” He motions vaguely down at his own form.

“I feel safer when everyone’s asleep,” Jaskier smiles and pats the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

After a brief hesitation, Geralt takes the space offered and Jaskier places his lute aside. Long fingers brush over Geralt’s chin and tilt his head back to examine the mark left behind by the striga. “It’ll fade.” The witcher says quickly, as if he has to excuse the new blemish should Jaskier be displeased.

“Hmm, perhaps, another story for me to tell,” he smiles gently and then takes one of Geralt’s hands. “You’re nervous.” Anxiety has a sickly sweet smell, not unlike fear, but it lacks the bitter undertones of the ‘fight or flight’ response. “I’m not sure why.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt murmurs, his gaze on their joint hands, the way their fingers lace together; slender, elegant, green fading to a soft pink and… _his._ “Are you—is this space okay for you?”

“The outside?” Jaskier chuckles, and then mutes it when Geralt’s shoulders bunch; he thinks he’s being mocked. _I’m not ridiculing you…_ “Geralt, I’d be happy with a mud hut in the middle of a swamp, as long as it had you in it. Here, I brought a blanket, I know you were quite happy to roll around in the dirt with me before, but you were covered in bruises and scratches when we were finished...” Their hands part and Jaskier pulls a small roll of material from where he’d tucked it between the roots of the tree. He spreads it out across the soft grass and then takes Geralt’s hand again.

 _Focus._ Geralt mentally checks the locks, recalling the mental fortitude earned from his day of meditation, and then settles between Jaskier’s legs where he’s guided. Their lips slot together in a now warmly familiar union, and the taste of him alone is enough to test the walls of that fierce thing in the back of Geralt’s head. He hunkers down and begins breaking the process up into its basic components and processes; what he needs to do to achieve his goals. Jaskier needs to enjoy, they both need to come, or so he assumes. It can be the only explanation for needing this in the first place. The scent of arousal spikes when he kisses Jaskier _this_ way—his tongue sweeping and slow, his teeth making a brief appearance as he draws back—Jaskier likes to be nibbled _here_ , and his ears are sensitive, so Geralt needs to be careful when he noses them. Each sigh and quiet whisper of his name is progress towards his objective.

The witcher slides a little lower and finds more sensitive points—the hollow of his throat, the slope of his shoulders—Jaskier moans when Geralt’s tongue swirls around his nipple, lips teasing at the hardened nub. The fingers wound through his hair tug, and his scalp prickles. _The beast growls with pleasure and Geralt beats it back._ He takes pause to regather himself, lips pressed to the centre of Jaskier’s stomach

“Geralt—ahh, you… this is very nice, but can I—? Mmm.” Jaskier shivers as the witcher unlaces his breeches; this isn’t how he thought it would go. Geralt was anxious, his reluctance over the last few weeks a constant shadow to the roaring scent of desire that followed him around like a haze. It’s gone now though. There’s lust, but it’s—that’s it. The doughy bouquet of happiness and passion that should accompany a tryst with a lover is strangely… muted. It surges now and then, a building, fierce heat, but then it fades completely. Geralt doesn’t _smell_ like he did the first time. Like— ”Ahh, _fuck._ Geralt—that’s—ahh.” 

The head of Jaskier’s cock slides down the flat of Geralt’s tongue, his mouth hanging open with a slightly desperate pant of enjoyment. One hand drops away from Jaskier’s hips to fist the blanket spread beneath them; the material crumples in the ferocity of Geralt’s grip, while his other hand continues to pet gentle circles across Jaskier’s thigh. The fingers in his hair tighten again, knuckles pressing down at the base of his skull and Geralt takes the invitation to swallow with the quietest moan. The dribble of precome across the back of his tongue brings him close to the brink of chaos again, so he chokes himself, pressing the thickness of Jaskier’s cock into his throat until his gag reflex protests.

Saliva sputters over his lower lip as muscles seize, but Geralt continues until his nose is buried in the soft hair at the base of Jaskier’s shaft and his senses are flooded with the musky smell of him. The dryad’s shivering apart under him, the undulation of his tongue coaxing awed gasps; Geralt laps at the soft skin of Jaskier’s balls now that the rest is seated so deep, earning a low moan. “Geralt—are you ok—nnngh, dear Melit—ahh, shit, that’s blasphemy here—ack! Gods, witcher.”

Geralt sucks, laves his tongue, uses his throat until it feels raw. His lips slide over velvet skin and he drinks down the building mixture of saliva and salty precome as it gathers in his mouth. He’s grinding down into the blanket like an animal, his cock twitching, as he sought out a few scraps of stimulation to stumble his way to a climax. The quiet, reedy moans that escape his control are lost under Jaskier’s praises and curses, as verbose in pleasure as he is in every other part of his life. 

Geralt’s not sure what’s getting him off; the act of using his body so brutally for someone else’s pleasure, or the _sounds_ and _scent_ of Jaskier’s ecstasy. He can taste and feel it building; the little waves of tension clenching through the dryad’s abdomen, the hardness in his cock, the balls beneath his chin pulling tight. His own orgasm lingers just out of reach and he’s about to slip a hand into his trousers to help it along when Jaskier comes. The reaction is instant. His own punches out of him and he chokes on the flood of seed emptying into his mouth.

“Ge—ralt,” Jaskier shivers, the blotches in his vision slowly fading. His fingers loosen in silky white locks and he looks down the slope of his chest. The witcher’s eyes are closed, he’s breathing heavily through his nose as if searching for calm, and he keeps Jaskier’s softening cock in his mouth, occasionally suckling on supple flesh. Usually lovers pull off and search for affection and further gratification, but his wolf lays there, apparently content with his mouth full and his nose buried against Jasker’s thigh. 

The dryad slips a hand beneath Geralt’s chin and tilts his head up; his prick slips out over swollen lips and the witcher blinks, apparently surprised by his position. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone quite as enthusiastic in that particular act—come here, let me see to you. After that performance, I’m going to make you sing at the tips of my fingers, I’m—.”

Geralt draws his mouth away. “Don’t have to. I’m done.”

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t catch the whiff of it until Geralt moves, and even then it’s only fleeting as the witcher pulls away from him. “Oh, I—uhh, well, still come here?”

“I need to get my equipment together ready to leave in the morning,” Geralt begins to stand awkwardly. He feels better. Almost completely now. His head’s clearer, the tremors of energy crawling beneath his skin have faded. The beast’s silent—sated—even if it seems to feel somewhat _cheated._ Geralt decides to ignore it.

“No, no, hang on one gods-damned second,” Jaskier lurches forward, takes the witcher’s hand and pulls him back down. “That’s—no, we were meant to kiss, and embrace, and… do more of that all night. We have until sunrise.”

“Do you need me to do it again?” Geralt says, seriously. He lowers down onto his hands, brow furrowed, and Jaskier balks.

“Do I need you—? No, that's not how this is meant to work. Is your throat okay? I've never had someone take me so deep, I..." _Did he seriously just do that like some kind of service?_ Geralt says nothing. He looks uncomfortable, perhaps a little confused. It’s worse than if he’d confirmed it outright. Jaskier’s heart drops and he looks down at his hands. There’s nothing he can possibly say in that moment. He needs time to take stock. “Alright. First light as usual?” He’s a brilliant performer. _Truly the best._ So he’s able to keep the bitter tremor of disappointment from his voice.

“Yes.” Geralt replies, and then departs. 

Jaskier drops his face into his hands. How has he managed to get exactly what he’s wanted for years _and_ his worst nightmare all at the same time?


	11. Pine Cones

Jaskier let it continue. He shouldn’t. But he did. There were two moments he enjoyed the most although, if he were honest, it was all rather _pleasant_. The first was the kissing at the very start. Geralt never came in cold; one big hand pawed at Jaskier’s left in a silent request for the glamour to be removed. They then scooped around his waist and pulled him close as soft lips ghosted down his jaw and neck. Sometimes Geralt would hold him like that for a little bit, but never quite _long enough._ He soon sank to his knees, tugged open Jaskier’s breeches and _set to work._

And dear Melitele was the witcher good with his mouth. Well, he didn’t use it to _speak_ so he had to be good at using it for _something_ , right? Sometimes Jaskier had to gently ease him off from choking—he liked to think it was eagerness born from enjoyment and a desire to please but had a sneaking suspicion it was to enforce a certain level of discomfort on himself. 

Then there was the _second_ thing; the peaceful minutes _after_. When Geralt drank down the last of his seed, and then stilled with Jaskier’s cock held in his mouth. His eyes went soft, his shoulders relaxed, and he breathed slowly through his nose. Occasionally his tongue might ripple, saliva and come dripping over his lower lip, but otherwise he buried his nose as close to Jaskier as he could and hung there in the moment. Once, Geralt was so distant that Jaskier managed to stroke his hair for a good thirty seconds—those golden eyes flickering with pleasure—before he snapped to his senses and pulled away.

Those quiet moments after became shorter and shorter as the months trickled by. Jaskier wasn’t sure how to get through to Geralt without driving him further inside himself, so they spent another few months apart in the winter. Geralt disappeared to his frigid home in the north and Jaskier bedded down in Oxenfurt.

His rivalry with Valdo Marx intensified in those frozen months, and Jaskier began angrily informing any who’d listen that the man was a scoundrel, a plagiarist and general pox of a human being. Every time Jaskier arrived with new material, he was the first to offer critique, sometimes of the subject matter himself. They came to blows the first time Valdo called Geralt a mutant beast unworthy of song and both spent the night in opposite cells at the city gaol. Valdo came off worse. 

His reunions with Geralt were always heated, with Jaskier pinned to a tavern wall or a thick tree and Geralt’s firm body pressed close. In those desperate moments he thought he saw Geralt’s control slip; his scent brimming with a mixture of desire, lust and _happiness_. Happy that Jaskier was back with him. That alone broke Jaskier’s resolve to demand more. And being hoisted up a wall, with his legs slung over Geralt’s shoulders as if he were nothing more than a hefty sack of potatoes, fingers wound through the white hair bobbing between his thighs, was staggeringly erotic.

It wasn’t enough— _isn’t_ enough. As the months go by, and then the years, Jaskier continues to follow at Geralt’s heel, to sing his praises and accept the affection he’s willing to give; his mouth, his hand, but never anything more. Seasons fade into each other and Jaskier tries to convince himself that he’s content. But he’s not. He wants more. And so does Geralt, he’s almost certain of it.

_Three years pass._

Three years of trying to talk to Geralt gently about it without driving him further away. Because last time Jaskier pushed it, well, _look what happened._ Three years of commiserating with Roach only to be told to simply mount him, what the hell was he waiting for? The distance feels like it’s growing, despite the supposed intimacy of their joining. The witcher doesn’t _smell_ right most of the time. Not of happiness, or desire, or passion, but of raw lust and a trace of anxiety. Sometimes though, he lets his guard down just a little too much and Jaskier scents it; the bouquet of Geralt’s desire as enticing and feral as it was their first time in the forest.

Jaskier craves it. Craves the kisses, the touch of the witcher’s hands and the tender way he cradles Jaskier’s body in the moments before. The instances when Geralt’s grip on his own heart loosens just a fraction and allows it to flutter and glow. If only it didn’t feel so hollow immediately after when the space between them is re-established. If only Geralt would allow himself to be touched and cradled in return.

The breaking point comes as they progress into their sixth spring together. Four years since the striga tore into Geralt’s throat. Their first meeting after such a long winter is as fraught and passionate as always. They drink, play some cards and Geralt takes Jaskier upstairs. The dryad insists on a bath despite Geralt’s indifference to it—he doesn’t seem to think he deserves even the smallest courtesy in that respect—and then Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed with the witcher kneeling before him. 

The gentle glide of his tongue and his lips; the quiet, breathy noises that escape as Geralt palms himself in time with the sucking pressure of his mouth is a slow, glorious pleasure. Jaskier strokes Geralt’s hair—this is allowed—and presses his fingers against his cheek to feel the hardness of his own cock in Geralt’s mouth. The head squeezes by the tightness of his throat and Geralt nuzzles his face into the tight curls at his groin. Jaskier comes with a quiet groan, grip tightening in silvery locks, and Geralt… _doesn’t_. 

After resting his chin briefly on the edge of the mattress to enjoy the weight of Jaskier’s cock in his mouth—a small luxury that he permitted himself—Geralt stands and heads towards his bags. 

“Um, Geralt?”

“Mmhm.”

“You didn’t finish.”

With a brief glance over his shoulder, Geralt only grunts and continues to rifle through his clothes for his wash kit; the water’s still tepid and he could do with a scrub himself.

Jaskier pouts and tucks himself away as he leaves the bed. “Can I help with that?”

“No need. I’ll sort it later.”

“And if I want to?” Just a little push, nothing too aggressive; Jaskier reaches out and places his hands carefully on Geralt’s waist. He can feel the warmth of the solid body in his grasp through black linen, and yearned to run his fingers across the soft, scarred skin beneath.

“I want to have a bath, and to sleep,” Geralt murmurs, although he can already feel his own heart picking up at the pressure of Jaskier’s touch. It takes all his self discipline to bring it under control, because with its excitement came the low, needy growl of the creature in the back of his head that wanted— _no,_ he didn’t even want to _consider_ what it wanted. Not with Jaskier so near.

Jaskier leans forward and presses his nose into the groove of Geralt’s spine. He can smell the heat of his desire in the musk of his sweat and his hands tighten just a fraction. “Geralt…”

The witcher turns abruptly and Jaskier staggers back in surprise. The look in those golden eyes is one of trepidation, the washbag held between them like a shield. “Not now.” Voice hoarse, Geralt tries to avoid those bright blue eyes as they search for his gaze. Despite the avoidance, Jaskier can see the exhaustion in Geralt’s face and steps aside with a grand sweep of his arm towards the bath. 

“Very well,” the dryad sighs and reaches for his lute. “I shall head downstairs and see if the innkeep is amenable to a tune or two.” 

As Jaskier leaves, Geralt heaves a sigh of relief. The burning desire to have those hands running over him—caressing, squeezing—ebbs away to a dull ache. The water feels chill against his flushed skin as he scrubs away the road dirt, but he’s unable to enjoy even the act of cleansing away the last few days of travel. When he climbs out, his cock’s still half hard and doesn’t rest even once he’s towelled off the moisture and pulled on a pair of braies to sleep in.

They’ve only occupied the room for a few hours and already Jaskier’s belongings are scattered across the floor. Geralt stoops down to pick up his colourful doublet and breeches, folding them carefully on top of his pack, but he pauses with the soft chemise in his fingers. His eyes flicker towards the door and then wander back. Jaskier’s scent permeates every fibre—chamomile, honey and the freshness of the wild—and Geralt scrunches it to his face for a deep breath. 

It stirs a fire in his belly and he flops onto the pallaise, fitfully kicking the scratchy blankets away, his skin suddenly prickling with the intensity of every touch. Just the _smell_ of him stirs Geralt’s prick back to full hardness. He tugs it free and lies on his back with Jaskier’s chemise rasping across the stubble of his chin; he nuzzles it, kisses it, all the while stroking his cock. 

His touch is soft, thumb smoothing through the beads of precome welling the head. If he’s gentle enough, he can pretend the calluses on his own fingertips were from years of playing the lute. He imagines those slender hands teasing over his balls, grasping the base of his cock as soft lips place wet kisses down his shaft; the way those fingers might slide inside him, his thighs spread needily for it and—

He growls into the soft fabric as he comes into his fist. The shame settles in moments later, with his palm still full; he staggers from the bed to fold Jaskier’s shirt away and rinse his hand. The room’s tiny—barely enough room for the bed, a desk and the small tub—so Geralt throws the window open to air out the smell of his lust. 

The last few years have been… difficult. It’s like the beast—the fierce, fiery force in his chest and head that rouses every time Jaskier’s nearby—is growing hungrier. At first, it had been sated by the taste of him—his lips, his cock, his skin—but now it wants more. It wants to be wrapped in him, wrapped around him, but that can’t happen; Jaskier would shatter beneath the unbridled strength of a witcher’s hand. The intensity of Geralt’s need would crush him. 

When Jaskier returns from a fairly successful evening to find Geralt curled in a ball, he hesitates. Usually Geralt’s on the floor, refusing to share a bed, but he’s only taking up half of the pallaise now. _An invitation?_ The witcher doesn’t stir as Jaskier pulls the blankets over and climbs in next to him. He watches the slow rise and fall of Geralt's shoulders and drifts off to sleep with a hand nestled close to his back.

***

The weeks pass and Jaskier watches his witcher across the campfire each night. A handful of contracts carry them through the months into the early summer. Geralt begins to sleep a little closer than he did before, and he leans across for kisses rather than being prompted. There’s a new level of desperation, a barely concealed tremor in his chest, and Jaskier tries a little harder to keep hold of him. He still pulls away.

It’s early evening around midsummer when Jaskier finally snaps. Geralt pushes him gently against a tree with those deep, wanting kisses; the scent of desire and happiness spikes along with the ferocity of his mouth, before ebbing away beneath that layer of anxious control. Then Geralt begins to sink to his knees. “Geralt, no—I’m not—,” he wriggles and the witcher glances up in mild irritation, his fingers tugging at the intricate lacing on Jaskier’s breeches. “I want to suck your cock tonight.”

“Mm, no, Jaskier,” Geralt shakes his head. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Well, then, you’re not having mine.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re already hard.” Geralt draws his hands away even though his mouth’s already watering, his need cresting almost beyond his control as he’s denied.

“So are you, but you still turn me down,” Jaskier growls. “For over six years…”

“Stop being melodramatic.” Geralt lifts his hands again, and then blinks in shock when Jaskier scrambles up the tree with the swift athleticism of a squirrel. 

“Melodramatic, I’ll give you melodramatic, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier huffs as he curls up on a branch. Some forest creature has made a small collection of pine cones and other miscellaneous debris near the nook and he snatches one. “Melodramatic is making this into a—an exercise,” he lobs the pine cone; Geralt dodges it, predictably, but the second hits a spaulder, “in self-sacrifice and—and _duty._ You’ll let a whore suck your cock, _take_ your cock, and you won’t even let me _touch_ you properly. _”_

“Jaskier—you—,” Geralt dodges another cone and the fourth clocks him in the centre of the forehead. “Just get down here and let me s—.” He cuts off as he realises what he’s about to yell up a random tree in the middle of a forest. 

“ _No_ , Geralt. No more! Either I get to touch you, or you’re never touching me again. Never.” 

Another missile descends and Geralt catches this one before irritably hurling it onto the ground. He rubs the back of his head, folds his arms and paces. It’s been at least a week and his yearning is bubbling near the brim of his control. And seeing Jaskier this upset—this irate—has set something else simmering away. _Guilt._ Geralt has maintained a tight grip on himself for this long, he can let the leash loosen a little. Enough to keep Jaskier happy. Enough to appease his hear—the… feeling. “Fine.”

“What?” Jaskier pauses mid-throw. 

“Fine, you can.”

“I can what, Geralt?”

“Do what—,” the witcher rubs a hand down his face and looks up into the tree. “Do what you want.”

“Not good enough.” Jaskier lobs the pine cone.

Geralt snarls. “What the fuck? I’ve given you what you asked for—I want to give you what you want.”

“It’s not about what I want.” 

Now Geralt’s confused, and it shows in every craggy, weathered line on his face. “But—.”

“Well, I suppose it is, and it isn’t. I just want you to want me,” Jaskier says it quietly, because it’s quite frankly _embarrassing_ to sound so needy, “like you want the whores.”

“Jaskier, I don’t _want_ the—,” Geralt pinches his nose. “I’m telling you. That I _want_ you. Now, can you come down from the tree?” He pauses, waits. “ _Please._ ”

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.” Jaskier reaches threateningly for the stash of forest debris, despite its substantial depletion.

“Anywhere.”

_Silence._

“Fine, my… prick, my back, my arms, my face, whatever you want.” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier considers the offer. It’s progress. Does this count as duress? Geralt doesn’t exactly look thrilled. _It’d do. For now._ He climbs down slowly and stands before his witcher, chin out. “So.”

“We’ve been on the road for—a while,” Geralt bites out. “I’d prefer you to not—.”

“That’s fine,” Jaskier takes his hand and tugs him down to the bedroll already laid out for later. “Let me.” He sets about unbuckling each of the straps on Geralt’s armour; he’s watched it a hundred times—a thousand, perhaps—so it doesn’t take long for his witcher to be kneeling there in just his shirt and trousers. 

The buttons of Geralt’s shirt undo easily—it’s old, he really needs a new wardrobe—and Jaskier’s fingertips flutter over the soft hair on his chest, pausing over the mark of their mating. He savours it, the stuttering breaths of barely restrained enjoyment, the flush that rises in Geralt’s skin as Jaskier leans forward to kiss his neck even as he strokes slowly around a nipple. Geralt all but melts into it, but his hands still cling onto his own thighs in a death grip. Jaskier smiles, takes him by the collar and pulls him down until they lay facing each other.

Their mouths meet again and Jaskier guides those big, nervous hands beneath his doublet and chemise, moaning quietly in appreciation when they sweep eagerly across his skin. He wants this to last, to take his time, but having Geralt beneath his hands, accepting of his caresses, is too much for his already hard pressed self control. Jaskier tugs Geralt’s trousers open even as thick fingers grasp gently at the bulge in the front of his. The moment his fingertips brush down the soft skin of the Witcher’s rigid cock sends a rush through his chest. 

The moment stretches and Jaskier strokes slowly, enjoying each pulse and twitch as Geralt gets warmer next to him; their kisses become hungrier and Geralt sighs, trying to restrain the moans in his chest. The front of his braies are damp as the precome wells profusely from the tip of his cock and Jaskier smiles into Geralt’s mouth before drawing away. Golden eyes are misty with pleasure, but he can tell from the bunched tension in Geralt’s shoulders that he’s holding back. “It’s okay, my wolf. I want to hear you growl, you don’t have to be quiet.”

Geralt’s brow creases. Jaskier has no idea. “Jaskier, can you—just—? _Please_.” 

The tight desperation in his voice is enough to spur the dryad into action; he takes Geralt’s hands and places them on his back, before lining their cocks up against one of his own. With the slick of their precome, the glide is slightly easier, his hips rocking slowly until he finds the angle that makes Geralt let out a quiet moan. His grip on Jaskier’s back tightens as a slender leg drapes over his thighs to pull him closer. 

Jaskier winds his hand through Geralt’s hair—coarse and slightly matted from the abuse of the weather—and nips greedily at his lips. The first burgeoning scent of passionate happiness seeps through the musk of lust, so he tugs at the silvery locks in his grasp and presses his tongue past pliant lips. The witcher almost surrenders completely; he’s so close, on the cusp of letting go, and Jaskier urges him with the tightness of his hand and the relentless rut of his body. But even as Geralt’s orgasm quakes through him—his seed splashing across Jaskier’s hand, their clothes, the bedroll—he grits his teeth and tenses against… _something_ , his breath held the whole time, his hands shaking _._ The dryad follows him over moments later and nuzzles beneath his chin with a gratified moan.

Palm sticky with their joint release, Jaskier holds them together until their cocks soften in his fingers, watching Geralt’s hazy eyes slowly sharpen again. When he tries to pull away, Jaskier tightens his leg and lifts his hand to Geralt’s waist. “Stay. Just a little longer.”

Geralt lets out a slow, shuddering breath and allows himself a luxury. A simple pleasure. His arms wrap around the firm body before him and he buries his nose in russet hair, eyes closing. For the first time in a while, the roaring creature that seems to rule over his emotions is almost silent, and his heart doesn’t ache.

**Author's Note:**

> [On hiatus]
> 
> I have a lot of projects on at the moment and I'm back at work! This story _isn't_ abandoned, but it may not be updated for a bit while I finish some other projects. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Furthermore, an Anon has threatened to report the work because it's dedicated to a fan artist. Please download yourself a copy just in case.


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